The Pet Project Page 2

  Thankfully, the walls between enclosures are sturdy and solid, because Pet’s enclosure is directly to the right of Ux-47’s. To the right of her pen is B-63.

  B-63, a heavy-boned, impressive-sized male, is the unfortunate recipient of Ux-47’s mauling. It must have been a terrifying fight. Both males are nearly matched in size, with B-63 also reaching six tender units tall, and prior to his injuries, weighing twenty heads.

  Since the attack, he’s notably lost muscle mass and therefore weight, and now averages eighteen heads in weight. He’s heavily scarred, he’s blind in one eye—it looks as if someone tried to claw it out—and he limps due to Ux-47 breaking the long bone in B-63’s leg. (We have not yet created a suitable anesthetic for tenders. Therefore surgery on them is risky and always experimental. A repair procedure was performed. He didn’t die during the attempt, and he could walk afterward; those two things are quite a feat.) He also shows signs of being older, with hair that’s turning silver, and of the males, his teeth’s chewing surfaces show the most wear—but his sperm count is healthy, so here he is, in the program. He’s beastly-looking, but perhaps he will perform service gently in deference to his damaged condition, I add to my noteslog.

  And then there’s Yc-12. Angular features, dark eyes that slant attractively, making him appear as if he’s smiling silently and engaged and constantly thoughtful—now here is an appealing male. Yc-12 is in the enclosure fitted to the far wall, so that he has a view of B-63 on his right. Between these two males’ pens is the alley access door that will allow me the easiest entry to the outdoor portions of their enclosures. Yc-12 was chosen for this spot because he makes no noise, and is therefore pleasant to pass (although it’s noted here that B-63’s growling did not begin until after his attack as he struggled to adapt to near-constant pain, and he startles easily when shadows pass over his damaged eye). Yc-12 has never growled, snarled, or bitten at a handler. He is the tallest of the three males, at six-point-eight tender units, and weighs seventeen heads. My predecessor must have seen promise in this male. His notes are jotted below the dry data and echo my immediate thoughts on Yc-12’s profile:

  Prime male in every way—perfect specimen in body, temperament, and ideal age for breeding.

  When I glance up, I ignore the beastly B-63 warily watching me and focus on the curious, open face of Yc-12. As I stare, his lips stretch into a brief smile.

  The male smiled at me! In a male, this can be a threat, a baring of the teeth—but Yc-12 did not display his teeth.

  Oh, I am impressed. I drop my eyes back down and add my own thoughts to his file entry. If I have my way, Pet will mate with this Prime male, and no one else. As a failsafe, I’ll keep the others—just in case the unforeseeable happens and one or two males succumb to illness.

  At that thought, a chill moves through me, and I look down at the female resting beside my leg. She’s been respectful and quiet, sitting on her pillow—not trying to escape or act out. It’s too soon to have developed any real sort of bond, but I certainly have a great affinity for her already. Trinary stars forbid that she succumbs to any sickness or comes to harm. I reach out, patting her.

  Not expecting my sudden display of concerned affection, Pet twists to look at me askance, but I only keep stroking her. Easily enough, she settles under my hand, even tipping her chin up so that my strokes land over the top of her head and glide easily down her hair, over the curve of her neck. “Such a good girl,” I praise her. “Don’t die.”

  ***

  Pet’s grown so comfortable, she’s leaning against me, and when I register the grumbling that’s been building in my stomach, signaling that I’ve studied through lunch—and gads, through supper as well—that’s when I find that Pet is not simply sitting with me in companionable silence. She’s fallen asleep, her head pressed to my leg.

  I’m strangely… warmed.

  Tentatively, I reach out and stroke her soft hair.

  Pet stiffens, her eyes flying open, her hand knocking against mine—but then she stops, registering who is touching her, apparently, because the next thing she does is prostrate herself over my foot, grimacing apologetically.

  Amused, I reach down and scoop her up, pleased when she doesn’t struggle and only clutches on to me tighter. “It’s all right, Pet,” I soothe. “It wasn’t your intention to be affrighted no more than it was my intention to startle you.” I make my way to the laboratory's fridge and freezer and tender feeding station, where the tenders’ meals are to be prepared. All the while, Pet stays frozen, clutching me. Tenders carry their young, and Pet is clearly over the age where she’s comfortable with the mode of transport. But I like holding her against my chest, and I surprise myself by extending an invitation. “How about I don’t put you back in just yet? Let’s find something to eat together.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The mate-selection process of a tender is not well understood. There is much documented, yet there has been startlingly little success in reproducing tenders.

  When we first obtained them, it seemed the simplest way to overcome their slow breeding would be to raise them en masse outside of a body entirely. Unlimited numbers of artificial wombs could bear the burden of growing each infant tender, and then the babes would simply require feeding and final rearing until they were weaned.

  We harvested female eggs, and fertilized them with male sperm. We raised hundreds and hundreds of young in artificial wombs that mimicked every detail of a tender female’s gestation-packet.

  But when it came time to separate the infants from their wombs and place them in incubators, the infant tenders… they died.

  The images captured in my textbooks might as well have been burned in my cranium. Aware of the number of germs and pathogens that attack a tender, researchers took the utmost care to remain hands-off with the young. Everything was automated, everything viewable remotely so the infants weren’t disturbed. This left a room full of wall-to-wall sterile incubators, with a tiny tender in each one.

  All of them dying.

  It was as if they were deprived of something, something intrinsic.

  Staff were afraid to go into the room, let alone directly handle any of the little ones, and despite a thorough search of the situation, no explanation could be found for their failure to thrive. The artificial milk was nearly identical in composition to natural milk. Autopsies proved that most young showed no issues with consumption of the nourishing fluid. Yet not one—not one!—infant lived.

  Thus, the tender hand-breeding project began. Controlled matings, vetted individuals, and constant supervision to protect the females—and although the number of infants produced by our efforts is small, at least the majority thrive.

  Of course, ‘majority’ is relative. With their small numbers and a skyrocketing interest for these creatures around the whole of the universe, it’s a race to discover how best to painstakingly multiply them.

  It was an exciting prospect when I believed I’d be working in a state-of-the-art facility with a full harem and a studlot of well-selected, well-mannered males.

  Now I’m filled with a dreading sort of anticipation. This was a challenge before. Now… my chances at any large-scale success are dashed.

  Still. It’s a chance to experiment, to learn, to try to better the rate of tenders, if on a small scale. And I enjoy the simplicity of Pet’s presence. She’s calming, even as she quietly struggles to get used to me.

  I discern which foods she prefers, and use them as incentives in order to ascertain what tricks she’s learned. Her smile is crooked as she demonstrates that she knows how to hop on one foot, dance on command, sing—and she even makes a sort of barking vocalization, although I didn’t ask her to do so.

  It seems to be an excellent indication of initiative, though.

  She’s watchful, and responsive, and eager enough to comply if not outright please.

  Eventually, at my encouragement, she begins to roam the area in front of the pens, keeping one eye on me at all times.

&
nbsp; By simply watching her go back and forth, I learn one thing—Pet is afraid of Ux-47.

  Hunched shoulders at his suggestive-sounding calls and a complete avoidance of his side of the room are clear indicators that she does not wish to interact with him.

  I take note of this and add a question beside it: Previously force-bred to this male?

  (It wasn’t noted in her file, or his for that matter. Hopefully, that means it didn’t occur. Force-breeding, we found out immediately, is full of dangers. Although it can result in pregnancy for the female, it always causes her damage—physically, if the male is rough in subduing her, and just as crippling, there is a mental, emotional threshold of damage as well. It can cause the female to stop eating, to withdraw from her handlers and other tenders, and can even result in the female’s death long before the young in her belly is ready to greet the world.)

  While Pet is loath to near Ux-47, she simply shows shy hesitation with the other two males, and this is promising. Notable: the other two males are well-behaved for her whenever she nears them, and they remain respectful, speaking low and deep to her when she gets in hearing range. In contrast, Ux-47 calls to her in an edged tone, voice louder than the other two, as if this will better convince her to give him attention. He also suggestively mimics the sex act with the bars of his cage, and excites himself to mating hardness with his hands.

  This does not interest Pet.

  This clearly frightens Pet.

  The fact that he either doesn’t realize or recognize that his courtship displays require alteration is concerning; perhaps he is mentally deficient. The alternative is that he is wholly aware of his effect—and he enjoys her fear, and this is cause for even greater concern.

  A male who cannot be trusted to treat a female well is a danger to the entire tender population, because he will harm breeders, and as he’s proven already, he will harm males he views as rivals.

  To be fair, physical aggression to others of the same gender is common among nearly all male tenders. There’s a terrible readiness to confront each other with violent ferocity in many of them, where this tendency isn’t quite as present in the females. At first, we theorized that displays of agonistic ability were performed in order to attract mates, but we quickly learned that females flee during savage male clashes.

  Because of the male inclination towards bellicosity, most males are not fit for household pets. Although there are some keepers who say the males can be trained to dance and play and sing on command just as easily as a female—especially if they’re settled with a tender female they can keep for their own.

  This leads us to believe that tenders at the very least belong in pairs. However, we’ve also seen evidence where a single well-reared male can just as happily settle into a setup wherein he’s kept as the sole breeder and protector of several females.

  Sadly, these males are bombarded with rivals, and if not for our intervention, it isn’t long before he’s mauled by fellow males of his species, and his harem of females is scattered among his attackers.

  CHAPTER 4

  TWO AND A HALF DAYCYCLES LATER.

  Ux-47 is beginning to irritate me with the way he won’t stop bellowing for Pet.

  Pressing my lap desk away so that I can stand, I look to where the pressure washer hose hangs suspended from the ceiling. Then I stride to the datamine room of doom, where I try to locate a log that will indicate when everyone was sprayed down last.

  It isn’t long before I decide that if the information is present amongst the data mess left to me by my predecessor, I cannot find it.

  Therefore, I walk back out with purpose, approaching the sprayer, and take note of the way the males brace themselves. Pet, who had been keeping abreast of me, drops back—drops right to the floor, actually, clearly not fond of being bathed.

  I sigh and bend down to take her hand. “This is a necessary discomfort. You tenders get so filthy.” Tenders shed all sorts of things, including their skin cells. This design must have come about because their soft skins tend to attract everything in their environment, clinging to them, just waiting to sicken or kill them. It’s very unhygienic.

  Pet makes an unhappy face, but gets to her feet, and follows me—even if she drags her steps so that she falls far, far back, she still follows me.

  I am mightily fond of her already indeed.

  When Ux-47 starts to shout for Pet, I aim the sprayer, and fire on him without warning.

  It is incredibly satisfying.

  Pet agrees: still behind me, she snickers.

  I’m smiling until Ux-47 snarls at me and ducks through his door to the outside run before I can properly bathe him.

  I’m slightly aggravated with myself for not anticipating this. I’m more than slightly aggravated with him for employing this cowardly and disobedient tactic. I make a note to myself that next time, before I approach the sprayer—I’d better slide the doors down and lock them.

  For now, I don an invisible cloak of bravery and approach the front of his enclosure. Having toured the pens from the alley side, I know that he has nothing to hide behind in the outer portion of his habitat once I enter it. This also means there will be nothing between me and him if he chooses to attack.

  I grasp the handle to enter—and Pet gasps and scampers back to her pen. To my surprise, she goes all the way into her enclosure—and shuts herself inside, flipping up her cot and crawling under it as if Ux-47 will storm out the moment I open his door.

  Not exactly reassuring.

  (It’s worth noting that I’m not upset at Pet for fleeing; I know she isn’t cowering from me—she’s frightened of him.)

  Unsettled, I eye Ux-47’s enclosure, his tactic and Pet’s reaction leading me to wonder if he’s charged my predecessor in the past. Clenching my jaw, I cock the sprayer, unlock the door, and stalk inside.

  Ux-47 does indeed attempt to take me by surprise, but I’ve powered up the sprayer to such an inhumane degree that the water pressure shoves him off of his feet. He howls as I hose him down in the dirt.

  As I do, I’m displeased to note that the dry, cracked ground quickly turns to caking mud, completely defeating the purpose of this entire bathing session. I quit dousing Ux-47 and back out of his enclosure.

  The other two males do not attempt to hide, solidifying my fair opinions of them even more. They stand still throughout the entire process, keeping right over their floor drains, never attempting to flee to the outdoor section of their enclosures.

  “Very good, B-36 and Yc-12. You’ve earned treats,” I tell them.

  Pet crawls out from under her cot and hunches miserably over her grate, waiting for me to wash her. For her, I turn the water pressure down as low as it will go.

  Her sigh of relief and look of surprise lifts my irritation that had stirred thanks to Ux-47, somewhat.

  Tenders are temperature intolerant, and after getting wet, it is necessary for them to be dried off or they are more susceptible to catching all manner of infection. Pet is a pleasure to rub down with a towel, not fighting or biting, and I find I enjoy grooming her until she dries properly. Yc-12 is equally as easy to dry, although he’s more stoic in the process, not arching and nearly purring as Pet did.

  B-63 however, hisses when I near his hip.

  His entire side, from his ribs all the way down his leg, is a mess. Healed, of course, but it’s obvious in his leg especially that he suffered a compound fracture, and the scars are ugly, leaving his skin patch-colored and knotted. That he walks at all is a testament to the fact that miracles exist. I don’t punish him for the one growl he releases when I bring the towel over his scarred eye socket either, nor do I hold it against him that he tosses his head sharply when I move too fast on his cloudy eye’s side. I can imagine it’s disconcerting to have your vision violently impaired on one half of your body. “You poor beast,” I murmur to him. When I finish, I give the three well-behaved tenders a selection of treats.

  That done, I move to the data boards posted outside of each en
closure. They’re all strangely blank, as if they’ve been rebooted. I enter the date and time, and log entries on each board, stating that the individual was bathed.

  I also mark on Ux-47’s board that his bath was a waste, and because of his poor choices, it should be repeated the following daycycle. The thought makes me glower.

  CHAPTER 5

  Like every animal ever domesticated, dedicated selective breeding efforts see profits by way of rare morphs emerging from the base stock. Tenders already come in a startlingly wide array of colors—from their hair, to their skin, to their eyes. Successful breedings have found that crossing color variants can result in fascinating combinations, to the ever-growing delight of their keepers. There’s even a growing pool of odd-eye tenders, where the tender is born with irises of completely different colors. They’re precious!

  But the most sought-after rarity on the market at the moment are a line of selectively bred albanistic tenders. A recessive trait, any tender could be carrying a hidden copy of the mutation. To pair two individuals who possess the mutation, and for the genes to spontaneously produce an albino progeny out of their coupling (approximately a one-in-four chance) would be so rare, that if our program managed to raise a single one, we could sell the youth and afford ten herds of tenders.

  My career would be untouchable.

  As it is, (even with the suboptimal options for breeding stock) provided this lab produces even one offspring of any variant, my career will achieve permanent post status.

  I only need one tender infant.

  With only one female in the program with which to achieve this goal, I essentially have nothing to do in my initial daycycles here but observe Pet’s cycle and watch for Pet’s mate preferences, cataloging her reactions to each male.