The sex of the thing was indeterminate. Under the dissection lights, though, it became clear that whatever it was didn’t fit into taxonomy as humans understood it. Miller and Jinks peeled back its various layers, leading Jinks to breathlessly ask, “Is this turning you on?”
Miller, scalpel in hand, covered to his elbows in gore, stopped cold. “What?”
“Well I’m wondering if maybe it’s putting out some kind of residual psychic energy. I’ve been dry as the Sahara for weeks and now I can’t stop thinking about boning you.” Behind the plastic shielding of her helmet Jinks bit her lip. “Or it.”
Recognizing that his partner might be compromised, Miller carefully removed his scalpel from the thing. “You want,” he steadied his voice to remove the sound of judgment from it, “to have sex with the dead alien?”
From what felt like the center of the room’s ceiling, a disembodied voice said, “Who says I’m dead?”
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