1. Chapter 1
one
Hue
My eyes remain locked on the tops of my old shoes, pursing my lips at the scuffed sight of them as they contrast against the pretty white dress the agency gave me only just an hour ago.
It feels wrong to wear it. I’ve never owned anything so nice, like I’m an imposter, and if anyone looks close enough, they’ll see it too.
My heart pounds in my chest like a runaway port cart.
This isn’t one of those wondering how the hell did I get here type of moments.
I know exactly how, the what, when, and even the why.
“Come, females, do not drag your feet and remember to smile!”
My attention finally slips from my shoes, a deep flush making my skin look splotchy and diseased as it spreads from my cheeks to my chest. The huge Oozarian male slips to the side, revealing an already growing crowd of curious species in the hall of the bustling port of Vortara.
The fringe on the end of his tasseled tie pokes in and out of his vividly green, gooey body as he ushers us higher onto the platform.
I’d agreed to be a breeder, signed the paperwork, and read the information packets.
Never, at any point, did any of them say a single thing about auctions.
Not even one letter dedicated to letting us know there was a possibility of being dressed up in the agency’s signature white gowns so aliens of every make and manner could gawk and study us to see if we were breedable or not.
Desperate times I suppose.
Beggars really shouldn’t be choosy and all that.
I am both things. Desperate and a beggar.
By no fault of my own. The sheer misfortune of it all, the continued plight of dwindling humanity, doesn’t care one bit if it’s my fault.
If I truly had a choice. So, I decided long ago I’d force my choice.
By whatever means, regardless of who I hurt or the laws I broke.
I had somewhere important to be, somewhere expensive for a human to travel.
It outweighed any sense of morality or obligation years ago.
As a child born aboard a drifting Alliance freighter, I’ve never even seen a planet’s surface, not even the reportedly smelly crust of Terra2, only steel corridors, recycled air, and the cold bureaucracy of the unhoused system set up by the Intergalactic Alliance.
A way to take care of children nobody wants, even us humans. Much to their displeasure.
It’s either this or ship myself off to be some kind of test subject for the Kalzaits and hope there is still enough of me left by the end to make it to the haven that is Lunareth.
Fuck that.
They are a pretty species, the Kalzaits.
Their iridescent wings and pale colors remind me of Easter on Old Earth.
An odd but cute religious holiday where they worshipped chocolate and a giant bunny who’d hide eggs in their fireplaces.
The Kalzaits are beautiful and smart, but it’s their eyes…
It’s always the eyes. Cold and unfeeling, clinical.
It makes me queasy. It must show on my face because where my attention had been unfocused on the growing crowd, it’s now filled with a slimy, bright green slime.
The headstrong Oozarian woman who runs this breeding agency with her tassel-tie-sporting mate points a scowl at me, keeping her voice low.
“It is bad for business if you look like we forced you up here at blaster point.”
I give her barely a nod in response, plastering a fake smile on my face.
Get chosen, get my dowry, and run like fucking hell before anyone can get me pregnant.
Easy enough.
My smile falters as soon as she pivots, slipping over to the microphone set up just to the side of the hover platform we’re standing on.
My fingers absently brush the necklace tucked underneath my dress, the fang warm from my skin.
I don’t look at the women beside me; we shared no placations for one another when we were all crammed inside the same yellowish waiting room.
No hey, what brought you here? No excitement, no smiles, no assurances.
Just bitter, muted resignation. Nobody here wants to be a breeder, yet here we are of our own free will.
Perhaps some out of spite. The system isn’t rigged per se, but it was never designed with humans in mind, and since humans stepped onto the intergalactic scene, nobody has bothered to adapt it.
Why would they? We are slowly repaying our debt, a debt we incurred the moment they saved us generations ago from our dying planet.
In terms of servitude, as pets, sometimes snacks, outright slaves, breeders, laborers, and entertainment.
I am lucky to have been born in what’s considered human-safe territory.
There are others in deeper, wider space who continue to fare far worse.
We’re either going to repay our debt or die out soon enough not to be a problem anymore. Either way, we get governing rights to Terra2, or the Alliance takes full control after we’re gone and turns it into something more lucrative.
“Greetings, patrons of Vortara, and thank you for joining us at The Solar Breeding Agency’s first breeder auction!
You may inspect our top-of-the-line female humans, but no touching.
Humans are a skittish species and require a tactful hand.
They frighten easily and heightened stress can affect fertility.
Each platform is equipped with a data slate listing its vitals, fertility scores, and genetic markers.
Bidding will commence now, and viewing will close in one zentic! ”
A large holographic clock descends overhead, marking the passing of the next zentic of discomfort for added effect.
The Oozarian woman breezes away with far more fluidity than you’d expect from a slime species as her mate takes up her spot at the mic, reluctantly.
His tassel tie is now fully caught in the soft flesh of his neck.
“A quick reminder that we are an intergalactic sanctioned breeding agency. Bids for sustenance or ownership will not be accepted. Standard one-year contract.”
Several species in the crowd bristle at that, hurling curses in their varying languages, some universal, at the male glowering down at them from the mic as they turn and leave.
A chill runs down my spine as it takes a sizeable chunk out of the crowd.
Over half of the patrons who attend this little auction have not done so for a breeder but are hoping to buy one of us. Permanently.
The look on the female Oozarian’s face is just as disturbed as mine, certainly not because she’s against the idea of humans being buyable but because the agency is desperate too.
After a recent scandal and large tariffs imposed on their operation in particular, business has slowed.
I’m only aware of this thanks to their constant bickering.
I don’t pay attention to Intergalactic News; most of it either has nothing to do with humans at all, is purposefully confusing, or is just downright depressing.
That being said, you’d have to be living under a rock not to be aware of the huge role The Solar Breeding Agency played in the recent Alliance scandal.
This small-time but bustling agency had all but declared war against the governing goliath after the Alliance came out, admitting to recently exposed documents detailing the exploitation of a primitive planet I can’t remember the name of.
I did see the video, though… the planet's inhabitants, huge four-armed snakes, had attacked a breeder, one from here.
The agency had gone to bat immediately for the newly mated couple, seeing as the female was one of theirs.
It’s why I chose them over some of the less seedy options.
They seem like they truly… I don’t know, care.
I thought I might have a better chance of scamming them without being executed for their trouble.
It doesn’t feel like they care now, standing on this neon-lit platform in the dingy Inner Rim of Vortara, so far from the pristine showboating above.
They don’t care that I had to dig up my pride, strip off a chunk of its rotting ass fat, and then bury it again just to come today.
To stand here like a piece of fuckable meat and hope I’m picked by someone who will be gentle with me.
Lax enough to let me take the agency-recommended adjustment period so I can escape with their credits and preferably an unpilfered womb in tow.
My muscles tense as aliens pass in front of my data slate. Every fiber of my being screams at me to run.
My eyes catch movement from the back of the crowd, a towering figure slipping out from between two metal panels of wall.
An infrequently placed recess opening you can manipulate enough to slip through…
if you know what you’re doing. A male, maybe, although I’m not sure why I think that; it feels right.
The figure is cloaked, a deep-set hood covered by some kind of tech veil, obscuring his face as he sets the panel back in place.
Face coverings are banned in most ports, but he’s getting away with it.
Somehow doing everything in a busy walkway right in front of a crowded auction without drawing anyone’s attention.
He freezes for a moment, his large frame stilling underneath the cloak.
My eyes track the crowd, my anxiety spiking for the hooded male. Was he caught?
I’ve been caught a time or two. It never ends well. The female Oozarian had nearly turned me away because of the large scar up my neck from the first time I went somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be.