Free The Fifth Season by N. K. Jemisin Page B

he says, looking at his hands, which are laced together before him. “I mean, they always tell me there’s a need, but that’s… I didn’t…” He sighs.
    “Then this isn’t the first time for you,” Syenite says. He only earned the right to refuse with his tenth ring.
    “No, no, but…” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t always know.”
    “Didn’t know what?”
    He grimaces. “With the first few women… I thought they were interested .”
    “You—” Then she gets it. The deniability is always there, of course; even Feldspar never came right out and said Your assignment is to produce a child within a year with this man . That lack of acknowledgment is supposed to make it easier, somehow. She’snever seen the point: Why pretend the situation is anything other than what it is? But for him, she realizes, it wasn’t pretending. Which astounds her because, come on. How naive can he be?
    He glances at her and his expression grows pained. “Yes. I know.”
    She shakes her head. “I see.” It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about his intelligence. She stands up and unbuckles the belt of her uniform.
    He stares. “Just like that? I don’t even know you.”
    “You don’t need to.”
    “I don’t like you.”
    The feeling is mutual, but Syen refrains from pointing out the obvious. “I finished menstruating a week ago. This is a good time. If you’d rather, you can just lie still and let me take care of things.” She’s not extraordinarily experienced, but it’s not plate tectonics. She gets her uniform jacket off, then pulls something out of the pocket to show him: a bottle of lubricant, still mostly full. He looks dimly horrified. “In fact, it’s probably better if you don’t move. This will be awkward enough as it is.”
    He stands up, too, actually backing away. The look of agitation on his face is—well, it’s not funny, not really. But Syenite cannot help feeling a modicum of relief at his reaction. No, not just relief. He is the weak one here, despite his ten rings. She’s the one who has to carry a child she doesn’t want, which might kill her and even if it doesn’t will change her body forever, if not her life—but here and now, at least, she is the one with all the power. It makes this… well, not right. But better, somehow, that she’s the one in control.
    “We don’t have to do this,” he blurts. “I can refuse.” He grimaces. “I know you can’t, but I can. So—”
    “Don’t refuse,” she says, scowling.
    “What? Why not?”
    “You said it: I have to do this. You don’t. If not you, it will be someone else.” Six children, Feldspar had. But Feldspar was never a particularly promising orogene. Syenite is. If Syen isn’t careful, if she pisses off the wrong people, if she lets herself get labeled difficult, they will kill her career and assign her permanently to the Fulcrum, leaving her nothing to do but lie on her back and turn men’s grunting and farting into babies. She’ll be lucky to have only six if that’s how things turn out.
    He’s staring as if he doesn’t understand, even though she knows he does. She says, “I want this over with.”
    Then he surprises her. She’s expecting more stammering and protests. Instead his hand clenches at his side. He looks away, a muscle working in his jaw. He still looks ridiculous in that robe with his hair askew, but the look on his face… he might as well have been ordered to submit himself to torture. She knows she’s no looker, at least not by Equatorial standards. Too much midlatter mongrel in her. But then, he’s obviously not well-bred, either: that hair, and skin so black it’s almost blue, and he’s small. Her height, that is, which is tall for either women or men—but he’s lean, not at all broad or intimidating. If his ancestors include any Sanzeds, they’re far back, and they gave him nothing of their physical superiority.
    “Over with,” he mutters. “Right.” The muscle in his jaw is