The 5th gender, p.1
The 5th Gender, page 1
part #1 of Tinkered Stars Series
THE
5TH
GENDER
A TINKERED STARS MYSTERY
G. L. Carriger
Wait, what am I reading?
NYT bestseller Gail Carriger, writing as G. L. Carriger, brings you a light-hearted romantic cozy mystery featuring an adorable lavender alien and his human crush.
Gail has a fun, silly newsletter full of gossip, sneak peeks, and giveaways. Join The Chirrup.
Contents
Title Page
The 1st Chapter: What’s with the pet thing anyway?
The 2nd Chapter: In danger of cat scratches and ramen splashes
The 3rd Chapter: It’s always better to have puffy hair
The 4th Chapter: Five-gender foreplay
The 5th Chapter: Embattled briefing
The 6th Chapter: Coordinating colors and other intimacies
The 7th Chapter: But we don’t even he a word for it
The 8th Chapter: Socks, chopsticks, and second dates
The 9th Chapter: No idioms for aliens
The 10th Chapter: Why aliens don’t eat noodles
The 11th Chapter: Favorite shade of purple
The 12th Chapter: But we don’t have a word for that, either!
Glossary
Author’s Note
Sample The Omega Objection
More G. L. Carriger?
About the Writerbeast
Copyright
THE 1st CHAPTER
What’s with the pet thing anyway?
There is no doubt about it. Humans are weird.
Surely all the other aliens would agree with Tristol on this subject – especially at the pub (which was run by humans) on the space station (also run by humans). But humans could be efficient in their weirdness and often quite fun. And no one argued with the fact that they were awfully prolific in all things, breeding faster than any other space-faring species ever encountered in the charted galaxy. They spread. Like fungus. They also spread their legs. A lot.
They were cute, though. Tristol admitted that. Fertile sexy brown-toned creatures, humans, with those adorable round little ears and petal shaped eyes.
But they were also weird.
Take the whole keeping of pets thing. Who would have dreamed up such an eccentricity? Keep an animal in one’s abode intended for neither work nor food but just companionship? Very weird.
Tristol, however, was a galoi, the notoriously easygoing loga variant, too. Which meant that once he met one of these so-called pets, he was rather taken with the concept. Or at least, this particular sample thereof.
*Cat*neuter*pet* Mister Montiguous was currently under Tristol’s care. And Tristol was utterly enamored of the funny hairy four-footed beastie. To have charge of a cat, particularly this cat, was a truly sacred responsibility.
Mister Montiguous’s humans were away on their second honeymoon. Tris had been chosen to feed the cat, and to pet the cat, and to call the cat a wonderful feline creature.
Tristol had no idea what a second honeymoon meant. To start with, the word honeymoon was mysterious. What did the excrement of bees and a satellite astral body have to do with spousal contracts? And then, why did one need two of them?
*Human*female*friend* Elle spoke eloquently about wanting to sit on sand and drink fruity drinks with umbrellas in them for her second honeymoon.
Tristol’s hair quivered in confusion. Why sand? Would not sand get into certain intimate places? Most uncomfortable. Then, after looking up the word umbrella because it was new to him, there being no weather on a space station, Tris was also left wondering, Why stick a large accessory meant for rain into one’s drink? Would this not damage both the accessory and the drink? Seemed a soggy bit of business.
But Elle and *human*male*friend* Olav (Elle’s spousal contract) were excited about the whole endeavor. Since Tris spent most of his life excited about something, he was always delighted to facilitate the sensation in others. So he sent his *human*heterosexual*spousal-unit*friends* off on their weird *soggy*sandy*honeymoon* thingy and undertook the task of looking after their cat.
Mister Montiguous was a diminutive furry creature who happened to miraculously weigh the same as a small asteroid when standing on one’s chest. Tris thought dark matter might be involved. The cat had the general attitude that if given due worship, devotees would be rewarded with a loud rumbling sub-vocalization (called a purr) and the occasional tiny tongue lick.
Tris thought both purr and licks were the most wonderful things. He was a particular fan of all sub-vocal rumblings. The isoga of his own species made a similar noise when calming their young.
Elle had actually been hesitant when asking Tris to help with the cat. Not because she did not trust Tris, but because she thought Mister Montiguous might require too much effort.
“He can be such a bother, Tris love.”
Tris had bounced on his heels, hair trembling in excitement. “It is a profound honor. You will show me everything to do with Mister Montiguous’s maintenance and I shall be most diligent in his alimentation.”
Elle had looked at him as if he were daft.
Tris was accustomed to that, from humans. His boss gave him that look nearly half a dozen times a day. But Tris was genuinely thrilled. After all, wasn’t this the reason to live among aliens? To experience their foibles. Like tiny predators as pets. And honeymoons. Perhaps when Elle and Olav took their third honeymoon, they would let him join them and observe.
The first time Tris met Mister Montiguous, Tris had been, as Olav put it, gobsmacked. (A good word, that. Tris would have to find a moment to apply it himself. )
“But why do you have a *cat*neuter*pet*?” Tris kept asking them, after he determined the creature was not a new species of sentient alien. He would not want to offend the cat by talking about it, as if it could not participate in the conversation.
Mister Montiguous had a certain level of sentience, but not so that Tristol’s diplomatic training need be applied.
“Because cats are great,” Elle explained. “And they’re one of the few pets not restricted to the home world.” Apparently cats came from Hu-Core and had spread across the universe along with their human protectors.
They had been sitting in the humans’ living room and drinking tea at the time, a ritual Tris found odd if enjoyable. Hot beverages as an instrument of welcome, fancy that? They were all watching the cat. Mister Montiguous performed some kind of interpretive dance move in pursuit of a tossed fluffy ball. Olav laughed and called him a wonderful feline creature.
“You keep it around for entertainment?” Tris had learned early on that there was very little humans would not do in pursuit of entertainment. (This also possibly explained all the progeny. ) They were easily entertained, especially, as it turned out, by Tris. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Tris was wildly curious and naturally flirty, and humans were easily flattered by both. Perhaps cats were the same.
Olav was good about explaining things once he knew Tristol was eager to learn. “Originally, cats went on ships for pest control. They’re rather ferocious hunters, although you’d never know it looking at old Monty here. His most strenuous activity is eviscerating a bowl of protein sim.”
Mister Montiguous stopped chasing the fluffy ball and flopped over in apparent exhaustion.
“It is marvelous,” defended Tris, utterly charmed.
When Mister Montiguous staggered over to him, and pressed a furry face into the hand Tris offered, Tris fell in love. Physical affection was something he greatly missed. Humans were not nearly as *open*contact*touch* as the galoi. He missed that a lot, and this funny hairy beastie seemed to notice.
“You can pet him, Tris. Just down his back and then scratch about the ears. Exactly.” Elle’s eyes were pleased as Tristol worshiped her cat.
“It is so soft!”
“He is a he, Tris,” Elle corrected, gently.
“But I thought you said it was a neuter?”
Olav laughed. “Neutered, not neuter. He has masculine parts. Well, some of them, just no longer the ability to procreate.”
Tristol nodded. That made sense. The cat was like a male isoga, then. Physically male, only without the ability to inseminate like an antiga. Tris adjusted his vocabulary to the proper pronoun and worked hard to become very good friends with Mister Montiguous. Male isoga were often the most powerful of the galoi. He would not want to make a mistake with the cat equivalent.
Tris had been invited over to Elle and Olav’s quarters for a meal (hot beverages came before food). It was his first time inside the private quarters of a human couple on a friendship basis. It was always amazing to see the inside workings of a human home. Tris would do anything not to offend and be dismissed. So he did exactly as Elle instructed and stroked the cat along the grain of his fur.
Mister Montiguous began to purr.
Tris decided that Mister Montiguous was the best thing in the whole galaxy.
Except for Detective Hastion, of course.
Detective Hastion made his hair fluff.
Now, several rotations later, Elle and Olav had invited Tris to cat-sit, and Tristol was beyond honored. Although cat-sit was another odd word. Tris hoped he was not meant to actually sit on top of Mister Montiguous. He did not think either of them would enjoy that. In fact, it seemed to work the other way around. The cat would occasionally sit atop him in some kind of primitive dominance display, as if Tristol were mere furniture designed specifically for one dictatorial carnivore.
He took his cat-sitting duty very seriously, more seriously than his actual professional job on the space station.
“You need to do what?” His *human*female*boss* Adjudicator Jones seemed more than unusually gobsmacked by his insistence. (Such a good word. )
“I must leave early, my boss,” Tris said, clasping his fingers, bouncing only a little, and trying to control the rapidity of his breathing. He was about to go feed a cat! “I must go forthwith to bestow upon Mister Montiguous his protein supper. It is the hour of his consumption.” Tristol tried to use big impressive words so his boss might understand how important this was.
“Who,” Adjudicator Jones asked with slow confused gravity, “is Mister Montiguous?”
Tristol was amazed. “You have not met him? Oh but he is wonderful! He is…” he allowed a significant pause to draw out the verbal tension, “…a feline.”
His boss did not seem suitably impressed. “You need to leave early to feed a cat?”
“Yes! Do you not see how important it is? I have been given sacred charge of a beloved human pet. He is a delicate thing. I must take the greatest of care with him.”
“Tristol, it’s just a cat.”
Tris did not understand such a dismissive attitude.
“Oh, stop looking at me with such big wounded eyes. Go on, then.” She flapped her hand at him. “Wait.”
Tris paused before sprinting out the door.
“Don’t forget your com pad.”
Tristol’s hair wilted slightly in embarrassment. “Oh dear. Of course not.” He gathered up his small portable computing device and other necessary communication equipment from his desk, as he was supposed to do every night.
The adjudicator merely looked affectionately amused. “How long will you have care of this cat?” How long, he knew she was really asking, will you be so scattered?
“Six whole days!” Tris tried to impress upon her the significance of the responsibility. “I am the only one they asked. Such a privilege.”
His boss looked as if she were trying not to laugh. She did that a lot around him. Tris thought, sometimes, it was one of the reasons she hired him. Humans and their love of entertainment.
He was also an excellent diplomatic negotiator and cultural mediator, of course. He was, after all, loga. Those few galoi who left Gal were in high demand because they were all loga, and loga got along well with every other species. Loga got along with everyone. Except for the pakaa nova. But then no one got along with them. And even pakaa nova were still more likely to talk to a galoi than any other alien.
Most species also thought galoi were cute and unthreatening. Big round eyes, excitable hair, and purple tones apparently conveyed wonder and innocence. Tristol would take what he could get.
Humans also thought the galoi were sexy.
Tris thought this was great.
But right now he had a cat to feed.
Mister Montiguous was waiting impatiently for Tris when he keyed into Olav and Elle’s quarters.
This was yet another way in which humans were odd. Galoi were a communal species. They tended to eat together in large groups. Grooming and bathing were also cooperative activities. Basically, everything was done in the common nests. In fact, a private residence was mainly for sleeping and the associated pleasure activities of a spousal group.
Humans, being weird, had their living quarters divided into named zones: the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen, and so forth. Tris found this challenging. His own residence felt big and empty and solitary. Although his human friends assured him that space station quarters were considered very cramped by planet-side standards.
The living room area of Olav and Elle’s home belonged to Mister Montiguous. It was this zone that the door opened onto. It consisted of a semi-private section where the spousal group ate, occasionally welcoming select friends to eat alongside. There was a seating area, or living room, for when they entertained, as Elle called it (there is that word again).
One of Tristol’s other human friendship groups was made up of three males who lived together. On Tristol’s planet these would have been instantly designated a spousal group, but they were actually something called platonic roommates and did not share sexual relations. They had invited Tristol over to a game night. Tristol had learned the word game could imply bed cuddles and sex, but not in this context, as it turned out. Game night had also not involved a meal but instead snacks combined with a shared endeavor involving cards with pictures and an imaginary verbally hallucinated reality. That also had taken place in the living room. So Tris supposed living rooms must be human halfway spaces, neither public nor private but somehow both.
He wondered what Detective Hastion did in his living room.
One of the things Elle and Olav did in theirs, besides invite Tris over to feed him regularly, because they said he seemed a little lonely (which he probably was) and ill-equipped to cook for himself (which he definitely was), was keep their cat.
Mister Montiguous, home alone without his humans, was gratifyingly pleased to see Tristol. The moment Tris was inside, the cat lumbered over to twine about his legs.
Tris assumed this was an attempt to trip him so he might fall and be on the cat’s same level.
Tris dropped his communication devices and, to save himself from injury, crouched down to cede to the cat’s demands.
He scratched Mister Montiguous around the ears, as required. Tris understood that – he too liked to be petted about the ears.
Mister Montiguous purred.
Tris was happy.
Which is why he must be excused for not immediately turning to seal the door behind him.
When the very loud blare of a perimeter alarm emanated throughout the station, it startled Mister Montiguous. The cat darted, not back into the safety of his home, but out into the hallway of the greater space station.
Tris, in a total panic, chased after him.
Olav had told Tris that Mister Montiguous was considered rather fat for a cat. But Mister Montiguous could still move quickly when he put his mind to it.
The carnivore took off down the hallway in an expeditious waddle. Unfortunately, he chose the direction of the central area where all the dining carts were located, and not away into the warren of residences.
The station was set up like a huge spinning sphere, generating artificial gravity but also providing the kind of circular comfort all species enjoyed. Every race in the galaxy, after all, originated on a round planet. Spheres, therefore, were considered the most cross-cultural psychologically satisfying shape.
The humans built their space stations so that every zone was a mix of public and private, with the more public toward the core. The very center was equipped with a gravity-free float-hub where one could drift up, down, sideways, or anything in between, in order to get between zones.
Work areas and the things that actually ran the station, like docking bays, were all located on the station’s crust. It was common for the residents of any one particular zone to also work and socialize in that same zone. The humans did this by design.
Apparently, it had been determined that human socialization numbers over one hundred and fifty were untenable, so residence warrens were kept to one fifty and no more. Tris rather liked this. He found it comforting to see familiar faces as he walked to work each day, even if they were alien faces.
Of course, people always drifted between zones. The best pub – for example, the one that catered to non-humans (through the simple expedient of stocking a range of alien beverages) – was located in Zone 6. Elle and Olav lived in Zone 3, like Tris. In fact, he had met them in what humans called the local park, a kind of communal social eating area with cultivated vegetation close to the grav-free hub.
So when Mister Montiguous took off toward that very hub, Tris was familiar with the terrain. He was also familiar with most of the people around him as he ran.
Tris moved fast. He wanted to catch Mister Montiguous before the cat reached the transport hub. He had no idea how a cat would react to lack of gravity, but he was certain he should not unleash something with such sharp claws and no sense of personal-body etiquette into a busy float-hub.
So he was desperate to catch the cat. Unfortunately, the cat was desperate to get away from the noise. Which was still blaring all around them and could not be escaped. Silly cat.
