Bloodchild

by Octavia E. Butler

I’m told I was first caged within T’Gatoi’s many limbs only three minutes after my birth.

“To provide the next generation of host animals,” he said, switching from contempt to bitterness.

“No one ever asks us,” I said. “You never asked me.”

“We use almost no host animals these days,” she said. “You know that.” “You use us.”

And your ancestors, fleeing from their homeworld, from their own kind who would have killed or enslaved them—they survived because of us. We saw them as people and gave them the Preserve when they still tried to kill us as worms.”

“If we’re not your animals, if these are adult things, accept the risk.

It amazes me that some people have seen “Bloodchild” as a story of slavery. It isn’t.