Breeder (16 page)

“That’s called satin,” Tara explained.

“It is very soft, but I have no use for it.”

“Many Terran women use it for night clothes—gowns and robes.”

“Terrans wear different clothes when it gets dark?” Omra arched her eyebrows.

“Sometimes we dress up for special events at night, but I meant to sleep in.”

“I sleep without clothes,” Omra said.

Tara laughed. “I do too.”

Omra stepped around the small shop, touching the fabrics. So many kinds. Rough, smooth, heavy, light. She spied some in shades of tans and muted brown-greens that were mottled. So different from the other textiles, she had to ask, “Is there a reason why these are spotted?”

Tara nodded. “Those are camo—short for camouflage. When you wear them outdoors, you blend in with the topography so people cannot see you easily.” She moved to the stand of fabrics and fingered the tan bolt. “This one is for use in the desert, and that one”—she pointed to the brownish green—“is for the woods or fields, where there’s a lot of foliage. It started as a military thing a long time ago, but civilians wear camo now. I have a camo jacket.”

“Are you trying to escape detection?” Omra shifted her gaze to Tara’s pink hair.

Tara laughed again, and Omra giggled too. She liked this Terran female. She was so friendly, so at ease with herself. She reminded her somewhat of Anika. Omra sobered. She wondered if her friend was still at the BCF or if she’d been acquired by an alpha by now. She hoped she was doing well and had been purchased by someone as permissive and indulgent as the Commander, who only punished to correct behavior and not because he drew pleasure from causing pain.

Omra wished she had had camo in shades of gray stone during her confinement at the BCF. So many times she’d prayed to blend into the walls, to escape notice. But if she had, the Commander would not have seen her, purchased her, and she wouldn’t be standing in this Terran booth now.

On impulse, she decided how to spend her money. She would buy some fabric and sew a uniform for Dak. “Can you show me some dark gray?” she asked Tara.

“This way.” She gestured for her to follow and crossed the shop. Omra admired Tara’s confident stride. “Is it for you? Or somebody else?” Tara asked.

“I will make a shirt for the Commander,” she replied.

“Wait a minute, you mean
Alpha
?” Tara dropped her jaw. “Whoa! You landed yourself a big fish, girl!”

“Fish?” Omra wrinkled her nose. “I do not understand.”

“Just a Terran saying.” Tara beckoned. Her fingernails were painted—each one like a different stripe of a rainbow. “I have something you might like.” Her boots clomped on the floor as she moved to a counter. She extracted a bolt of solid near-black fabric from underneath. “Touch it.” Tara held it out, and Omra ran her hands over the fabric. Crisp, very similar to Dak’s uniform material.

“Feel,” Tara said and dumped the bolt into Omra’s arms.

Omra widened her eyes. “It weighs very little.” She hefted the fabric in her arms and noted it shimmered slightly.

“It’s expensive too.” Tara twisted her mouth ruefully. “The fabric is woven from a composite microfiber that…” The vendoress proceeded to tell her about the cloth and how to work with its special qualities, but even before she finished, Omra knew she would buy it.

“Can you deliver?” Omra asked when she paid for the fabric and needles forged from a Terran alloy. She did not want Dak to see the material until his shirt was finished.

“Sure can. The bazaar offers courier service.”

A couple of betas entered the shop, and Omra took her leave so Tara could deal with business. She wondered how the vendoress would fare with Parseon males unused to meeting females on an equal level. She bet Tara would work it to her advantage. The betas would leave with their purses considerably lightened. She weighed her drawstring bag in her palm. The way hers had been. Her assets had been reduced to two coins. No matter. It was worth it. She couldn’t wait to sew Dak’s shirt.

Parseons crowded the bazaar now that Dak’s presence had deemed entry acceptable. Many carried packages, while others appeared to be in negotiation with vendors, gesturing in the universal sign language of commerce.

She twisted around to locate Dak’s guard. He had waited for her outside the cloth shop. Now he trailed behind her again. Would he spoil her surprise by telling Alpha she had bought something?

“Watch out!” a female voice cried, but the warning came too late. Omra plowed into someone. Omra jerked around to face the person, an apology readied on her lips. “I am so sor—” The words froze in her throat, and she stared.

The other female gaped, equally stunned.

Omra found her voice. “Anika?”

“Omra!”

She threw her arms around her friend, and they hugged and jumped. They were causing a spectacle, but Omra didn’t care. The friend she thought she’d never see again stood before her.

“What are you doing here?” Omra asked after they’d moved out of the traffic.

“Well, Jergan is negotiating for some Terran daggers, and I decided to look around.”

“Jergan? The guard from the BCF?”

Anika nodded. “He purchased me.”

“B-but he’s beta!” For the first time, Omra noticed Anika’s insignia. She’d been claimed by a beta. And it was out there for all to see.

Anika’s face clouded. “That makes it difficult sometimes.” She scanned the crowd, then lowered her voice and leaned close. “There is an Enclave to the north, where Parseons have broken with Protocol. Things are…freer there. Jergan has been working a double shift at BCF, saving money, and we’ve been stockpiling supplies. Jergan plans for us to join the Enclave.”

Jergan’s plan worried Omra. “Freer how?”

“Males and females live in pairs. There is no alpha or beta, unless you consider females are like the betas.”

“But you would be a pariah!” Omra gasped. Yet Anika’s description of the Enclave hit close to home. Wasn’t the freedom Dak permitted her similar?
Heresy!
Dak was still
Alpha
. She could be a breeder, a beta or, or…a tree stump, and he would remain
Alpha.

“When we left the Enclave. But within it, we would be free to
be
.”

Omra’s eyes filled with tears at the hardship her friend would encounter. “I cannot imagine such a life as that.”

“Can you not?” Anika’s eyes and mouth shifted downward. “I noticed the welts on your legs.”

Omra flushed with shame. “It’s not like that. Alpha treats me very well.” She wished she could share the information of the amazing things he did to her body, but natural reserve held her back. “I jeopardized our safety. He was right to punish me, so I would be more mindful. He has never abused his right,” she stated with conviction.

Anika did not look convinced, but she did not press further. “Will you come to Market next week?”

“Yes.” Whether Dak would consent to selling sweetcakes remained a big question, but they would still have to purchase food.

“I must find Jergan. Can we meet”—Anika gestured at the Terran bazaar—“next Saturday early in the morn before everyone arrives? The following week we leave for the Enclave.”

“Yes. I will come.” She would work out the details of how she would get here later. Maybe she could ask Dak if she could visit the bazaar again. He had showed it to her in the first place and seemed willing to indulge her curiosity.

They hugged, and with a heart weighted by concern, Omra watched Anika hurry away. To so blatantly eschew Protocol—Omra shook her head in dismay. Protocol was not a perfect system, but without it, how would a female survive? Once again shame flooded her at her lax behavior. The Commander’s punishment had been just and fair.

Omra wove through the packed emporium. She’d been occupied for quite a while and presumed Dak would have collected her by now. Either his business was taking much time, or he could not locate her among so many stalls and people. She had no wish to get in trouble again, so she planted herself near the entrance—the last place they had seen each other. Soon after, she spotted his head poking above the mass of people. His face was tight, and he’d furrowed his brows.

She waved to catch his attention. He shouldered through the throng, his tense frown vanishing under a neutral expression. “I was becoming alarmed I would not find you. More people have visited the bazaar than I expected.” He flicked his gaze to her hands, empty except for her thin coin purse. “You did not find anything you wished to purchase?”

Omra shifted from one hip to the other and hoped he wouldn’t notice the bag no longer bulged. “N-not today,” she lied. “But it was all so fascinating. Thank you for bringing me. I hope I can come again to see what I missed,” she said to lay the groundwork for the following week.

Maybe she should tell him she’d met a friend and request to see her. Except females didn’t pay social visits. Dak had granted so many exceptions, she couldn’t imagine he would permit many more. He had limits—as she’d experienced. Her legs and buttocks still burned.

“We’ll see.” He tucked a brown paper-wrapped package under his arm. She wondered what he had bought, what item had caught his interest at the Terran bazaar, but he did not offer an explanation. “We must go.” He led the way outside and set a direct course for their conveyance, which waited at the other end of the Market. As usual he offered no accommodation for her shorter legs and charged ahead.

Omra heard the commotion before she saw it. She couldn’t decipher the meaning of the shouted taunts through the Market din, but Dak apparently could. He halted, and his body went rigid.

Chapter Eleven

“Drakor! Drakor!” The vilest word in the Parseon language reached Dak’s ears as he and Omra neared the Market center. He signaled for the bodyguard to watch over her, shoved the package into her hands, and sprinted toward the shouts.

A mob encircled the fountain area. Dak assessed the size and composition of the crowd. Perhaps a couple hundred alphas and betas shouted and waved their fists, joined by several lower members of Dak’s advisory cabinet, as well as one high-ranking subcommander. He tightened his lips. The participation of his officials served to sanction the demonstration. Also among the assemblage were members of his personal guard, their weapons holstered. They’d made no move to halt the growing melee, but at least they weren’t participating.

With his gaze, he sought their attention, and they snapped into a military stance, readied for his orders.

“Drakor! Drakor!” chanted the mob.

Dak could not see beyond the wall of people, but instinct identified the object of their animus. He had foreseen tension could erupt into violence, but he’d hoped to avoid it. His officials continued to shout with the crowd, egging them on. Were they trying to incite a riot?

“Drakor! Drakor!” The slurs increased to a frenzied pitch.

“Silence!” Dak roared.

He signaled his guards to follow and pushed through the press of people. As individuals recognized him, they fell back, and a hush supplanted the shouts. “
Alpha! It’s Alpha
!” A wave of whispers flowed.

“Explain yourselves!” he demanded. He employed no concern for his safety. He was Alpha, revered and feared.

At the center of the fracas, he found his hunch confirmed. The demonstrators had surrounded an Enclave familial unit: a male, his female, a breeder child, and an infant son. The man—alpha, beta, Dak couldn’t tell—had one arm around the female, who clutched the wailing baby on her hip. With his other arm, he attempted to protect the sobbing child, who clung to his leg.

Dak planted himself in front of the familial unit and glared at the protestors. “I have asked a question.”

Gazes dropped, shifted left and right. A disgruntled murmur rippled through the assemblage. The subcommander stepped out of the crowd. Karak executed a perfect salute, yet something in the gesture smacked of insolence rather than deference.

“The citizens of Parseon were sweeping the vermin from the village streets,
Alpha
.”

“Vermin!” Someone shouted.

Karak stabbed his finger at the Enclave unit. “Their presence dishonors all of Parseon, debases Protocol.”

“DRAKOR!” A cry rang out, and a fist-sized rock hurtled through the air on a trajectory toward the breeder child. Dak dove in front of the female and took the blow. People gasped, and he thought he heard Omra scream. Then silence fell. The people watched.

Shouts rang out. Curses. His guards dragged a struggling alpha to the fountain.

“They are drakor!” The male spat at Dak’s feet.

A murmured agreement swept through the crowd.

“The drakor defile us. And anyone who supports them dishonors us.”

“String him up,” Dak ordered. “And give him twenty lashes.” He could not allow the insult to go unpunished, or others would follow his lead.

The guards dragged the man away. Dak raked the mob with his gaze and pointed at the familial unit. “And twenty lashes to anyone who lays hand or stone on any of them.

“Disperse! Now.”

The agitators shot baleful glares at the Enclave unit but disbanded, peeling away in groups of twos and threes to reveal a horrified Omra, clutching the brown package to her chest. Across the square, a new group banded to witness the public flogging.

Dak spun on his heel to deal with the members of the Enclave. With the crisis quelled, anger at the source arose within him. Why couldn’t they have remained in the northern hills? Why did they have to flaunt themselves in public? “You are fortunate I happened upon the fountain.”

“Thank you, Commander,” said the male.

“We should not have come,” the female choked out, rocking the baby.

“Your female is correct.” Dak spoke to the male. “If I hadn’t been here, all of you would have been ki—” He glanced at the breeder child attached to her sire’s leg like a mollusk to a rock. A mop of hair swirled around a delicate face stained by tears. Her tiny shoulders continued to shudder. In her, Dak formed a picture of what Omra must have looked like as a child. He yanked his gaze back to the male. “The outcome would have gone another way.”