a mother’s milk
Heather Osborne
“I’m missing something.” Dathas slipped from her clay slick into the frothy pool and took a deep draught. The water was hot and green with bloom, thanks to Cennil’s endless adjustments to the hydroponics. “On one level, the aliens’ language is so superficial—no layers of meaning at all. And yet, they take such pains to make their meanings precise.” She looked to Cennil, hoping to moisten his interest.
“You haven’t answered my question.” Cennil undulated across the pool and emerged, damp and streaked with algae. “Should I open more chambers in the living quarters? I could enrich the atmosphere if there was more surface area for the mosses.”
Dathas waved one limb in careless assent. “If you like. There’s plenty of room, though.” She scooped a mat of greene
