He sighed. “Is she even for sale?”
“No, but you are a highly-esteemed royalty and unofficial ambassador from Zandia. I’m sure she can be purchased for the right price.” Daneth referred to his position on the United Galaxies. Since the Finns were not recognized by the UG due to their genocidal practices, Zander served as the Zandian ambassador. Not that it did much good. No one on the UG was willing to put their resources behind him to overthrow the Finns.
He made a grumbling sound in his throat. “Fine. But don’t spend too much. Our resources are needed for recruiting soldiers.”
“Your offspring are top priority. Even over the war plans,” Seke said. The male didn’t speak often, and when he did, it always had a definitive ring to it, as if his word was the last and only word.
“As you wish. I’ll breed her. But if she doesn’t survive the first coupling, her death is on all of you.”
Daneth chuckled. “Humans aren’t that weak.”
~.~
Lamira crouched beside the row of tomato plants and flicked a bug off the leaf before anyone saw it. The Ocretion foremen always wanted to spray the plants with their chemicals at the first sign of any bugs, even though it had been proven to harm the plants.
Her stomach rumbled. The tomatoes looked so juicy. She longed to just pluck one and pop it into her mouth, but she’d never get away with it. She’d be publicly flogged or worse—shocked. The fresh Earth-based fruits and vegetables they cultivated were only for Ocretions. Human slaves had to live on packaged food that wasn’t fit for a dog.
Still, her life was far better than it might be in another sector, as her mother always reminded her. They lived in their own tent and had little contact with their owners after work hours.
It might be worse. She could be a sex slave like the sister she’d never met, her body used and abused by men every day. After the Ocretions took her sister, her father had led a human uprising, which had resulted in his death. Her mother, pregnant with Lamira, had been picked up by slave smugglers and sold to the agrifarm. Her mother had been careful to hide her beauty and taught her to do the same, keeping mud on her face and hair and wearing clothes that were too big. They hunched when they walked, ducked their heads when addressed, and kept their eyes lowered. Only in their own ragged tent did they relax.
“You, there—Lamira.” A guard called her name.
She hunched her shoulders and looked up.
“The director wants to see you.”
Her heart thudded in her chest. What had she done? She was careful, always careful. By the age of seven her mother had taught her to distinguish what was real—what others knew—and what was claircognizance. She’d learned to keep her mouth shut for fear she’d slip up and say something she knew about someone without having been told. Had she made a mistake? If she had, it would mean certain death. Humans with special traits—anything abnormal or special—were exterminated. The Ocretions wanted a population they could easily control.
She dropped the bushel of tomatoes and walked up to the main building, showing the barcode on her wrist to the scanner to gain admittance. She’d never been in the administration building before. An unimpressive concrete slab, it felt as cold and dreary inside as it looked from the outside. One of the guards jerked his head. “Director’s office is that way.”
The gray concrete floors chilled her dirty bare feet. The director was a fat, pasty Ocretion female with ears that stuck straight out to the sides and cheeks as paunchy as her belly. Beside her sat a male of a species she didn’t recognize.
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“Lamira.” The director said her name, but didn’t follow with any instructions.
She stood there, not sure what to do. She tried for a curtsy.
The humanoid male stood up and circled her. He appeared middle-aged and stood a head taller than a human, but unlike the doughy Ocretions, he was all lean muscle. Two small horns or antennae protruded from his head. “She’s in good health?”
The director shrugged, looking bored. “I wouldn’t know.”
The male lifted her hair to peer under her ponytail. He lifted her arms and palpated her armpits. His skin was purplish-peach, a nice hue—an almost human color. His interest in her seemed clinical, not sexual, more like a doctor or scientist.
“What is this about?” she asked.
The male raised an eyebrow, as if surprised she’d spoken.
The director touched the fingertips of her four-fingered hands together. “They are not house-trained, the humans we keep here. They’re mainly used for outdoor agricultural work.”
House-trained. What in the stars did that mean?
He cupped her breasts and squeezed them.
She jerked back in shock.
“Stand still, human,” the director barked, picking up her shock-stick and sauntering over.