This piece of flash fiction was a morning warm-up exercise, the idea emerging half-formed as I woke. The vividness of my dreams seems to increase with red wine and cheese. All that tryptophan etc – or maybe not.
“Your report states that the dominant species endures a state of intermittent involuntary unconsciousness totalling a third of its lifecycle. Are you sure, Prosta? It seems unlikely.”
“It appears to be the case from our observations so far, Ovuna - in the wild at least. But the hibernation period is highly atypical, with no discernible link to other seasonal behaviours. Lack of illumination appears to be the trigger, in phase with the planet’s rotation.”
“Even as we speak, one third of them are incapacitated?” she asked, the facets of an eye lensing across my darkened carapace. She had sensed their weakness as easily as mine.
“Globally, yes. They cannot function without this diurnal pause, suffering rapid decline if deprived. Psychosis and self-death occurred in the third captured specimen within only five activity cycles.” I stroked my proboscis with one pair of mandibles, an annoying habit I’d gained during this unusually arduous survey.
“I find it very odd behaviour, Prosta. Yet, if I am to believe your population estimates, they still proliferate unchecked?”
“The disparity did surprise us, Ovuna. We continue to investigate the two remaining specimens, despite the failure of our standard pheromonal analysis. Rest assured we will eventually establish the copulation triggers, even if it requires direct assistance.”
“Yes, their breeding habits…” Her labrum rose in disgust. “I skipped most of that section. Is it really true – just the one, and with no timing stipulations?”
“A wise move, given your proliferate condition, Ovuna. Yes, I’m afraid mating and hatching have been observed throughout their solar orbit, with only single sacs emerging in most cases.”
One of her eggs twitched inside its own sac, luminous from her hive chamber’s green-tinged glow-walls. Only a reflex, but I could smell the ripeness. The ship’s birth chambers would be full in one Eighth and then my colours would return. And hers.
“I don’t doubt this is all of great interest to you, Prosta. But I still find them weird and disgusting,” she said, middle tarsi vibrating with emotion.
“They are very weird,” I demurred. “But interesting, nonetheless.”