Jenna McCormick: Born

There are many possible futures for the world, Allora.

And all of them start with you.

For now, take my journal and hide it. No one else needs to shoulder this burden than the ones that already do. Hurry, now, before the overlord finds you.

The mention of the overlord jerked her out of the surreal haze that seemed to engulf her ever since she’d entered the barn. Slipping the book back in the plastic sheath, she hid it inside her armor and sprinted for the tunnel.

The clattering of clay dishes and cups was a dull roar compared to the jovial sounds of the colonists. As per usual, Borns sat and talked and laughed while Breds scurried about doing their bidding. Allora kept her head turned away, but she was not fast enough.

“Where have you been?” The thunderous boom of Overlord Mag’s voice echoed throughout the caverns.

Even the torches appeared to flicker at the question, as though they too feared displeasing her adopted father.

Squaring her shoulders, she whirled to face Mag.

His fat, trout-like lips curled in disgust and she could smell the liquor on his breath. How he could sleep, when every day he consumed her weight in alcohol while Bred children cried themselves to sleep from hunger was beyond her.

“Doing the rounds, Overlord.” The last time she’d used his name he’d struck her so hard, her jaw had been dislocated. Mag deserved her obedience, but she would prefer to be as far away from his stench as possible. “There were reports of wild dogs raiding the harvest bins and—”

A slashing motion of his hand cut her off before she could make up a phony report. “I’d hope you would have dressed for dinner, since we have company. But the soldier maiden is not without her virtues, eh, Gaul?”

Gritting her teeth together, Allora turned to face the bulbous blond who reached no higher than her chin. And that was without her boots. Gaul smirked up at her. “We were just discussing our possible colony merger. It seems that your group has a bounty of untapped…assets.” He looked directly at her breastplate as he formed the last.

Forcing herself to endure this humiliation, Allora lifted her chin. Would Mag ever tire of playing matchmaker for this swollen troll? Gaul must hold something of value, for every Born woman in the colony had been offered to him as soon as she came of age. First Allora’s two adopted sisters, who had found Born husbands of their choosing, much to Gaul’s irritation. Now, it was her turn.

Turning her cool gaze on Mag she said, “May I consult with you in private, sir?”

He nodded once, blustering out orders to Breds who scurried about refilling food troughs, and clay goblets.

Not even a week back in this place and already the Borns had settled in to their typical sloth-like lifestyles. Allora shook her head, knowing there was nothing she could say to change his stance and knowing she needed to try just the same. “Father, why do you not change the supervisor rotation? We have more than enough—”

Mag slammed his goblet down on a stone table and whirled to face her, backing her up against the tunnel wall. “Shut up or I’ll cut out your impertinent tongue! Born women are not supposed to work at anything other than pleasing their men. We have Bred to do the work and the men will supervise the Bred.”

Allora lifted her chin, though she wasn’t about to meet his bloodshot gaze. “So why was I allowed to be appointed Task Mistress?” She cringed as the question came out, wishing she could call the words back inside and tuck them away.

“Because no Born male in his right mind would have you and your odd ideas!” Mag sniffed and gripped her shoulder. “Lucky for us, Gaul has no mind and a large hive of tunnels we could access if a civil union was in place. Stupid sod sees nothing but a pair of big titties. A word of warning, daughter—learn to curb your tongue because if you ruin my merger I will cut it out.”

Her suspicions confirmed, Allora shrank from his touch. “So I am to be sold off like some prize heifer?”

He wagged his index finger in her face. “You are to be married off in a joining of clans. We are holding a banquet tomorrow night. The official announcement will be made then, so long as all the arrangements have been reached by that time.”

Allora swallowed. “What if I have no wish to wed?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “By colony law, that is your right. But, you will be disowned from my family.

I doubt any would take in a rootless wench with no kin.” His gaze roved over her in an assessing manner, his sneer telling he found her lacking in every possible way. “Wear something appropriate to your station because you are about to be promoted from Task Mistress to fiancé.”

Cormack couldn’t help but follow the task mistress. From the shadows of perpetual midnight he watched her stride to the tunnels. As a field laborer, he had no right to be there, but snaring a cloak from one of the many stowed on the table by the entrance hid the designation tattoos on his arms and neck.

The fire snapped and danced in the grates, though this region of the earth remained warm from the sunny season. Soon enough the constant darkness would lead to permafrost and the fires would be kept blazing, the smoke rising from the ground in huge billowing tendrils warming the Born while the Bred were forced to huddle together in clusters. The weak and the sick would die off and be recycled, while the Born grew plusher with every turn of the planet.

The sounds of drunken revelry broke him from his morose thoughts and Cormack had to intentionally unclench his fists. Rage would not further his aim and he wanted to see her again, could feel her pull like the poles drawing at the oceans after the great stillness came leaving landmasses bare.

Though he knew it was foolishly arrogant of him, he felt as though she needed him in some way.

Ridiculous to think a beautiful Born woman would turn to a lowly field laborer, but then who would believe he’d licked her luscious cunny only an hour before? And she hadn’t ordered his death yet.

Perhaps he would pursue her until she either fell into his arms or removed his head from his shoulders.

’Tis the madness. Even as the thoughts coalesced in his fevered brain, Cormack considered that he might be on the verge of deconstruction. Breds had a shelf life, no more than forty years, tops before their brain and body chemistry started breaking down.

Bodily functions would quit, systems shutting down one at a time. The lucky ones suffered heart failure without ever feeling a twinge. Others decayed, bit by bit, becoming phantoms of their former selves before begging the Born to end them. Some simply went mad, sometimes taking other Breds out with them.

He knew which demise he preferred.

Yet even as he weighed the risks of seeking her out, his feet carried him forward. Believing it to be safer to settle in and wait for news of her, he stowed away in an empty room. This section of the tunnels had been dug by Breds, probably the first Breds ever to roam the planet. He touched the perfectly squared off wall, that had been dug with handheld tools, since machines were never to be trusted. The cool rock had no give, just like Cormack—a man without a purpose, merely existing for the use of the Borns.

A gasp sounded behind him and he turned to see a scantily clad Bred woman wielding an empty pitcher as though it were a sword. “What are you doing in here?”

Cormack heaved a sigh, more relieved than he’d like to admit in seeing a familiar face. “Lara.”

He let the cowl drop away from his face and she gasped. “My stars, Cormack. What are you doing in here?”

Cormack thought furiously, not wanting to link his task mistress to his name, in case he was found out. “Some of the litt’uns cry from hunger. I thought I could make off with a few extra packets.”