Four little fingers. Four little toes. Perfect.

 

The broodwife smiles like it’s true. Like there’s nothing wrong. But Pistola’s Particulars would beg to differ.

 

Five! Five toes, five fingers. Five! Like the body plan of everything and everyone everywhere. Five! Like Hobble’s own webbed nubs. Five! Like the broodwife’s.

 

“But Pistola—"

 

But Pistola doesn’t matter, dear. Never mind Pistola. Never mind Ulgus and Koppur. They’re old. Out of date. Irrelevant. Look instead to Moorbok or, Omp forbid, Ponk — though he’s really only good for the basics. Either will tell you that your spawn is lucky to even have a head, let alone four full digits on every nub. The world’s changed, my dear. We have to make the best of it.

 

The broodwife lets out a long, low croak to signal that she’s had enough of reproductive theory. It’s full of frustration, impatience and a distinct lack of empathy. She must have seen this too often. Had too many other mothers quailing at her through their countless broken breedings.

 

But she can’t see what it does. She can’t see the quiver in Hobble’s fat, sucking lips, the boggle in her bulging eyes. She. Doesn’t. Know.

 

The broodwife turns from the steam pool. “Come on, then. Come have a look.”

 

She beckons. Smiles.

 

It’s ok. It’ll be ok.

 

Hobble shuffles slowly over, peers over the slick black lip of the pool, and the broodwife takes her nub, holds it, rubs it gently. Then, she points out the lone egg, floating pearlescent upon the water, nested in bubbles and brine. With a torch, she parts the amniotic shroud, its cool cerulean light laying the embryo bare.

 

“There,” she says. “There’s nothing quite as beautiful, is there?”

 

Hobble shakes her head. Swallows the billow in her throat. Looks down at the tiny, curled foetus with its perfect tiny skull and perfect tiny organs, all visible beneath its semi-translucent perfect skin.

 

Four little fingers. Four little toes.

 

Almost perfect.