Born

11

Allora propped Cormack up against the wall to wipe sweat from her eyes. It was sweat, damn it, not tears. She didn’t have time for emotion, had to figure out a way to get Cormack to the surface, find him some protective gear and get the hell away from the overlord’s grasp.

They had no provisions, nowhere to run, no plan in place. And precious little time left.

The Bred in the draining pod was a woman.

Younger than Cormack but older than herself, she knelt on the floor of the glass tube, blond hair covering her face. Allora glanced to the indicator screen, seeing that the draining had been going on for several minutes. On the accusation board the plaintiff had written, stole nutri packets from the kitchen.

Allora frowned, momentarily startled out of her frenetic mindset. Surly that must be wrong. Since when were the Bred recycled for stealing food?

A row of Born stood watching, the mortician who would take the body for recycling, garbed in his outdoor armor and leaning idly on his gurney. The kitchen supervisor, who must have reported the theft, looked over to where they stood, examining Cormack’s genitals with sick interest. Allora stepped in front of him and glared until the woman looked away. Beside her, the doctor tapped his foot, waiting to declare that the soul had been properly harvested.

The minister mumbled in a monotone voice, passionlessly entreating the universe to care for the departed. Not a single one of them stirred so much as a hair when the woman threw back her head and shrieked.

“Lara,” Cormack breathed, staggering forward.

His gaze locked on the suffering Bred dying by the will of the overlord.

Allora blocked his path, using all of her strength to push against him. If he hadn’t been so weakened from his attacks on the overlord, she never would have succeeded in restraining him. “There is nothing you can do for her.”

He looked down at her, his expression inscrutable. “She did it for me. I asked her to take the packets.”

She squeezed his arm, filled with fear that she would soon have to watch him die the same way.

It’s not over until it’s over.

Behind Cormack’s left shoulder, a cage rattled as one of the waiting Bred lost his composure. “My turn next! No cutsies, no cutsies, no cutsies!” Bloodshot eyes with expanded pupils glared at them.

The madness has claimed him. It truly was a crime to make this man wait any longer to die. If she had seen him in the barracks or anywhere else in the compound she would have slit his throat. A grin split his dirty face and he nodded eagerly at her, as though he had read her mind and liked her conclusion. Chills shook her to the soul and she turned away, sickened.

A weapon, we need something to fight with.

Though Cormack physically couldn’t help her and there were too many for Allora to best on her own.

She eyed the lock on the Bred cage, wondering if there was any way she could set them free so she and Cormack could escape in the chaos.

Yet where could they go? More than a mile of labyrinth tunnels stood between them and the surface and countless Born troops might patrol in between.

Well over six feet tall and completely naked, Cormack would draw interest even if he wasn’t an escaping prisoner.

If they did make it to the surface, they had no supplies, no animals to speed them away from here.

Without fresh water they might wander for days until ultimately dying from dehydration. Cormack had no clothes and would be at the mercy of the elements.

Come on, Allora, if you are ever going to think up something brilliant, now is the time!

Lara shrieked again, blood gushing from her nose and mouth on rivers of red. Cormack let out an answering bellow, as though he felt her agony. Allora squeezed his arm and wished she could comfort him or take him from this place of death and destruction—he’d known so much of it already. Hell, as long as she were wishing maybe she ought to wish the world had never stopped turning, that water and food were plentiful once more, that human beings had never created A.I."s and the Bred to do their work for them.

The blond Bred crumpled to the bottom of the chamber. Cormack sagged against her even as a rush of adrenaline shot through Allora’s body. If she was to make a move she had to do it now.

Yet nothing had changed—her circumstances were just as dire. Armed only with her whip and the chamber too small to use such a weapon accurately.

They were greatly outnumbered and even if the onlookers didn’t try to stop them, the guards standing sentinel in front of the Bred cage would. Her flare of panic morphed into a full-blown wildfire. No way out.

The draining supervisor strode in and opened the door to the tube, admitting the doctor. Bending down he checked for a pulse and called out, “Draining successful, this one is ready for recycling.”

The mad Bred howled, an eerie sound Allora had never heard from a human throat before. He rattled the cage again, hissing “My, turn, my turn, my turn!”

Hefting his great bulk forward, the mortician angled his cart so the guards could load Lara’s body.

She was slight as a bird, her wrist no larger than a child’s. It dangled over the side when the guards dropped her onto the gurney. Her eyes stared sightlessly at them until the mortician activated the opaque bio-casing which would start breaking down her molecular structure into water and salt.

Two of the primary ingredients in the protein packs she’d been wrongly accused of stealing.

“Get back, you dogs, the overlord is here!” The Born supervisor shoved the soldiers out of the way, eager to kiss up to Mag, maybe even get promoted off this thankless detail.

Her foster father swept in, Gaul by his side.

Allora frowned as Gaul undressed her with his eyes.

Mag’s own stare left her cold and behind her Cormack tensed.

“Put him in the tube.” The overlord ordered her.

“Overlord, it is not ready for another draining, the tube needs time to recharge—” the supervisor’s protests cut off abruptly as Mag sent him a quelling look.

Gaul has a weapon. Praying that Cormack would stay put until she came for him, Allora guided him to the tube. Unable to stand on his own, he sank to one knee, hands braced against the glass. How she wished there was some way to convey her thoughts to him, to let him know what she planned. But it was too dangerous. Stepping out of the tube, she hurried toward the overlord and his guest.

She had no idea whether word of her indiscretion with a Bred had reached her intended’s ear, but he seemed just as fascinated by her as ever, his stare transfixed on her chest.

“My Lord Gaul.”

Timing herself until she was well within reach of them she dipped her head in what she hoped was some semblance of a respectful manner, until she was at eye level with the sword, calculating the right angle so she could draw it from its sheath in one, quick motion.

“Task Mistress,” Gaul addressed her and she stood, well within his grip. The predictable fiend reached for her, snaking one of his beefy tentacles around her waist, pulling her close. “The overlord has you working late today, no?"

Cutting her eyes to Mag, she watched as he shook his head once. No, he had not told Gaul about finding her with a Bred—he still hoped to marry her off to this scabby excuse for a man.

Allora decided right then she would rather be drained in the tube alongside Cormack.

Gaul pulled her even closer, his fetid breath falling on her face, one hand slithering down to cup her ass, in front of the entire room.

“My turn! No cutsies, no cutsies, no cutsies!”

“No,” Cormack wheezed from behind her.

Forcing herself not to look over at him, she reached up toward the sword, determined to slit Gaul’s throat first, then hold Mag as a hostage until Cormack could be released.

The ground shook beneath their feet. Just a tremor at first, then coming stronger and more consistently. Allora lost her balance and fell backward, hitting her head on the stone floor. Groaning, she rolled to her stomach and looked up to see hurt and betrayal burning in Cormack’s eyes.

She opened her mouth to explain, but a whine filled the shaking chamber, cutting off her words.

The maddened Bred grew calm. His words spoken in a grave tone, “Something’s coming.”