Born

1

“What are you doing?” The Bred asked Allora as she bent down to examine his back. He was no stranger to a sound lashing, his back an intricate web work of scar tissue that stood out in sharp relief next to his golden skin tone. Shit, she wished he would have just handed over the box when she’d ordered him the first time.

“Patching you up, you ungrateful cur.” His eyes stayed shut as she produced the poultice gel from her utility belt and aimed the dispenser at the throbbing wound. “You ready to hand over your prize?”

He nodded once and she applied the gel immediately. He had not been so cooperative in the past; otherwise the supervisor on duty would have healed him right away. Breds were known to be thick-skulled, the only teacher they respected was pain but Allora saw no reason to let one suffer any longer than necessary.

“I just found it, out in the new field.” Still he didn’t let go.

His big body trembled in relief and she allowed him thirty seconds to regain his composure before making her demand. “Now, hand over the box.”

“I only wanted to see—”

Allora cut him off with a clipped tone. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He shuddered once and extended his hand. She didn’t reach for it right away, that was an ignorant move worthy of a new supervisor, not a second level task mistress. Instead she watched his face. Breds had no control over their emotions and Allora had some proficiency in understanding them.

Which is why I’m still alive.

She expected to see malice or a promise of retribution written across his features, but instead there was only a quiet longing. And he wasn’t staring at the box.

“Please, I want to know what’s in there.” Despite the please, he didn’t beg, just asking for his due.

Allora hesitated. There was no rule against a Bred witnessing a discovery. Oftentimes they were present when a new field yielded surprises. The regs stated that a supervisor rank or higher must control the situation. “All right, you can open it.”

He didn’t thank her, obviously a proud lug. Allora expected nothing more. Politeness was irrelevant as long as he obeyed. She watched him shift to his side gingerly, as if unsure whether her poultice would hold. She noticed the hollows under his cheekbones, the gauntness to his entire frame and asked, “How many meals have you gone without?”

He refused to meet her gaze. “Why do you care?”

She fingered her whip. “Don’t push me, Bred. I don’t want to beat you again, but insubordination will not be tolerated.”

This time he did look up, his bright blue eyes alight with an unholy fire as he stared at her. Allora had to steel her reserve to keep from backing away.

His voice was low as he whispered, “There are those who need it more.”

Holding his stare, she dug into her hip pocket and withdrew a nutri packet. “I agree.”

He frowned, looking from her to the packet and back. She jiggled it impatiently and when he proffered his hand, she dropped it into his grip. He stared at it warily and she sighed, loathed to explain her actions, but knowing he would not eat until she did so.

“There is more than enough food to go around and I see no reason why any ought to starve.”

This time he did surprise her. “Thank you.”

The corners of her mouth curved upward.

“Manners from a Bred? Will wonders never cease?”

“I have a name, Supervisor,” he muttered, opening the packet.

She raised an eyebrow at his distain. “As do I. I’ll give you a hint—it is not Supervisor.”

He nodded once. “I am called Cormack.”

Despite her best judgment, she had to ask. “How old are you, Cormack?”

He finished his meal and swallowed, his shoulders stiffening infinitesimally. “Thirty four.”

Double shit. Allora regretted her need to ask. At almost three and a half decades, Cormack of the bright blue eyes stood on the threshold of a minefield.

Any transgression at all and he would be sent to the draining chamber, broken down into parts which could then be used to sustain Born humans. Or pressed down into the viscous fluid that would incubate a whole new generation of Breds.

“Well, Cormack. I am not a supervisor but a second level task mistress. It would serve you well to recognize the difference.” She tapped the infinity insignia on her lapel.

His eyes went wide. “Task Mistress? I have never encountered one of your designation before. Forgive me.”

Allora ground her teeth together. That was because most who reached the task designations no longer walked the planting fields, letting the supervisors handle the Breds. “It is not a punishable offence.”

Silence reigned between them and almost as though it had been choreographed, they both stared down at the box.

“Go ahead, open it.” Allora put a thin thread of command in her tone, hoping he understood that she was in no mood for games.

Cormack ran his hand lovingly over the grime-encrusted box, his slow caress denoting awe and wonder. Her body tingled in the most unusual places as she watched his long fingers fiddle with the latch, careful not to break it. She scowled, shifting her weight to ease her odd discomfort. What is the matter with me?

The locking mechanism gave way with ease, and Cormack licked his lips as he gripped the top of the strongbox. Allora’s own tongue darted out before she realized it. Glancing from her to the box and back again, Cormack studied her mouth in a most inappropriate way.

The constraints of her thermal gear grew tighter, her skin prickled against the layers of fabric. Her nipples, peaked from the cold, felt sensitive as his tongue emerged again.

“Get on with it already!” she snapped, unwilling to prolong this bizarre encounter. To feel urges for a Bred? The only lowlier disgrace would be to mount a Cyborg.

For a heartbeat she felt sure he would ignore her command and keep eye contact, see how far he could push her. She was too close to him now to use her whip and if he attacked, she’d have no choice but to inject him with the sedative in her gauntlet and have him hauled off to be drained.

Curiosity won out and he raised the lid to the metal box. His eyes went wide and he threw it to the side and scrambled away, curling into a defensive posture in the dust.

“What is it?” Allora frowned.

He flung himself at her feet, forehead touching her boots, hands trembling. “Please, I didn’t know.”

She glanced to where the box had landed and at the clear plastic bag that protected a book. Triple decker shit on a stick.