The Pet Project Page 3

  Pet spends a fair amount of time glancing at B-63, whom I call Beastly. I can’t for the life of me understand his appeal. Perhaps his scars invoke her curiosity.

  Whatever the reason, Yc-12—whom I aptly refer to as Prime—is the superior candidate, and I quite literally press her in his pen’s direction throughout the day, encouraging her to be near him. If lust can be fostered by nearness, by Creator, I am trying to foster it in her. But when my nudging doesn’t work to keep her there, I move my chair and my work station closest to his pen, and drop her kneeling pillow so that she’s forced to sit between me and Prime’s bars.

  And proving he is absolutely a wonderful example of a tender male, Prime never harasses her through the bars, never rudely fondles his member at the sight of her.

  Ux-47 does. Constantly.

  I’m in the middle of keeping my fingers pinned over the button that delivers shocks to his collar—because even I’ve grown weary of his sounds, his disgusting breathing, and the sharp scent of his spilled seed—which he sprays all over his walls and outside his cage, the filthy dullwit—when Pet rises from her pillow and moves outside.

  This is fine. It’s safe for her to wander around the pens because this entire building is enclosed by rock and stone, so there’s no danger of Pet escaping. There’s little danger of some wild predator swooping down and taking her. Thus, she’s allowed to walk freely outside, where she can use the alley to skirt the males’ enclosures, and even re-enter her own pen from the outside if she so chooses, which sometimes she does. She’s so far been perfectly trustworthy, and does her gender proud with her biddableness and pleasant nature. Therefore, it’s several moments after I finish punishing Ux-47, that I glance to the outer enclosure monitor panel.

  My lids lower when I see that Pet is next to Beastly’s run. I look over at Prime, and his eyes shift from where he too is watching Pet on the monitors. At my glance, he gives me yet another one of his lips-stretched facial expressions. It’s a smile, but if I had to categorize it, I would say it is a wry one. If we could communicate, I would nearly swear that Prime is saying I don’t know why she’s not attracted to me like she is the scarred, age-advanced, *not*-prime male.

  All right. Perhaps Prime is too polite to say all of that. But I’m not too polite to think it. Why is she so interested in the older, damaged—

  To properly detail my summary of his flaws, my eyes cut to Beastly—

  But he’s not on his cot.

  My eyes fly to the monitor. My heart constricts.

  The scarred, deformed male has a weed growing in his enclosure, not too far from the bars. Topping the weed is a flower, which makes the weed fairly attractive—which is probably why he hasn’t stomped it flat like Ux-47 has all of his weedish greenery.

  (I would like to note that Prime hasn’t stomped all of his greenery either. Unfortunately, none of the sickly weeds that have managed to thrive in his pen have flowers atop them—who could anticipate females would even be attracted to weeds?)

  Pet is standing at Beastly’s fence, looking upon Beastly’s lone flower.

  I’m starting to hurriedly close the folder I had out on my lap desk when Pet fits her arm through the bars of Beastly’s enclosure, stretching to reach for the cursed weed-flower that’s so snagged her attention.

  In all of creation—what is she thinking?!

  I shove my lap desk to the side, shove it right off its track in my haste, sending it sailing to the floor. Because Pet doesn't know that Beastly is cloaked in the shadows in the corner. Watching her.

  Ripping a handheld monitor off the wall, I stare at them as I race for her.

  Pet’s managed to capture a leaf, pulling the entire weed in her direction—but the leaf she has ahold of tears off. Her mouth opens, and perhaps she makes some sound of dismay—but she’s so focused on her goal that she doesn’t notice Beastly has moved—so, so fast! How, with his grievous injury?!—until he’s hovering right beside her.

  “PET!” I shout in warning, making my ear depressions ring, my panic loud enough I hope she hears me past all the rock that muffles sound. I slam through the door that will take me to the alley.

  Maybe Pet hears me, because she brings her head up sharply.

  Too late.

  Beastly is on her.

  She tries to yank her arm back but panics, and the tight metal weave squeezes her now slightly-swelled arm (swelled from being constricted as she strained for the flower, no doubt) rather than allowing her to pull free.

  I’m squeezing the monitor in one hand, and fumbling for the correct stunner controller to deliver immobilizing shocks to Beastly’s collar—I know I have the wrong one when it’s Ux-47 who howls. “Sorry!” I call.

  Beastly growls at Pet.

  “You brute!” I spit.

  Pet falls completely still, her eyes wide as she stares up at him.

  He has her caught by the elbow, and I wince when I hear Prime howl—WRONG controller! I’ll make it up to him with treats, my poor, poor male—but I’ve finally got Beastly’s controller identified, and I’m about to slam the button down and hold it there long enough that he melts into ooze—when Beastly reaches for the weed Pet couldn’t quite collect and easily plucks the stalk from the plant.

  Pet’s mouth has dropped open.

  Beastly presses the stem of the weed-flower into her hand, and very, very carefully, he slides his large fingers on the sides of her upper arm, forcing his way between her soft skin and the unforgiving bite of the metal weave.

  Then he spreads his fingers, widening the fence gap. Taking Pet by the wrist with his other hand, he carefully presses her limb back through the hole—guiding the flower stem to follow her without breaking off the flower.

  I’m as stunned as Pet looks.

  Prime gets a double portion of treats for being mis-corrected. And Beastly… he gets a triple portion of treats, because I’m grateful he didn’t harm Pet when he could have. Certainly, there would be no benefit in a male harming a female—yet they’ve been known to do it simply for pleasure.

  I can absolutely believe Ux-47 is this type of male. But in the spirit of fairness, I give him half a treat in apology for mis-correcting him.

  And I begin an enrichment project.

  One by one, I lock the males in the inside-half of their pens, and I add decent-grade potting soil to their outer enclosures. Then I put down seed. It was the best I could afford, a wildflower mix I was told, so it’s my hope that it will offer a nice variety.

  It’s dirty work, and I walk into the empty indoor half of Pet’s enclosure, stand over her grate, and turn the sprayer on myself when I’m done. I’m drying off when Pet sidles up to me and leans against me, wrapping her arm around my hips.

  I have read about this. This is a tender clutch; it is high affection among tenders.

  I believe in this moment it is also an expression of thanks. Pet obviously can’t read, but she recognized the weed-flowers pictured on the bag of seed, and she is bright enough she easily ascertained my purpose. She emitted appreciative sounds that made me feel like I was walking taller. It certainly helped me get through the back-breaking work of hauling dirt with much more cheerfulness than I would have otherwise ended with.

  Touched by this extra display from her, I place my hand on her head, and enjoy the way she brushes herself further into the contact. “You’re such a good Pet,” I tell her. “I like you so much.”

  CHAPTER 6

  I am convinced tenders can speak.

  At least to each other.

  Perhaps their language isn’t well developed, but I don’t think that’s quite the case. Their communication can be stilted—for example, Prime’s speech seems at times to be incomprehensible to Beastly and Pet, who are the only two tenders he speaks to.

  Yet they all react specifically to each other’s vocalizations, just as you would if a person was sharing dialogue with you.

  Take now for example: Pet tenses during her grooming time the moment Ux-47 begins calling to her.
The brushing and trimming itself doesn’t seem to be the catalyst; I’m certain it’s whatever he’s calling out. Interestingly, the other two males show an increase in aggression whenever Ux-47 appears to be addressing Pet. Pacing, lunging, raising the level of their own vocalizations, and seemingly aiming them at Ux-47, who only grins and feeds on their disquiet.

  I shock him until he stops interrupting, and use compressed air to blow any leftover hairs off of Pet’s skin. For this, she always squeaks and fights, but she laughs too, which—also very, very interestingly—calms the males.

  Taking Pet’s arm, I walk her over to Beastly’s cage. Her eyes go wide and she looks up at me sharply, something strange lighting her face. Beastly’s face too.

  I puzzle over this as I motion that he’s to move to the corner of his pen so that I can enter it.

  I take in a shaver and watch Beastly’s shoulders slump in disappointment.

  Strange.

  Pet appears to be speaking to Beastly as I cross to him, which was exactly the pleasant distraction I hoped she’d provide. Of course he knows what I’m about to do but to my begrudging approval, he doesn’t growl or attempt to fight me when I hook his collar to a short lead high on the bars, which will prevent him from trying to sit to escape me.

  When the blade uncovers a scar that starts at his eyelid and drags down to his jawline, I wince. “Ghastly.”

  Beastly flinches, and for the first time, he tries to hide his face from me, as if he knows he’s abhorrent.

  Evidently, this distresses Pet, because she nimbly reaches through the bars and rips the shaver right from my hand! I’m so stunned that I haven’t recovered when she takes Beastly’s chin in her fingers, speaking to him in the tender way, and continues where I left off, taking careful strips out of his face-fur.

  Beastly rumbles something to her quietly, something that causes her color to flush dark. I want to take note of everything that’s happening in their interaction, but I’m afraid to move and attract their attention from each other. It’s quite fascinating. I wonder if I can get her to shave Prime, and what effect he will have on her.

  Pet makes a soft response, shyly, I think, and whatever she says causes Ux-47 to laugh evilly, and call out something that makes Beastly tense.

  Prime surprises us all: he bellows something back at Ux-47, the most aggressive I’ve ever heard him become.

  I decide that whatever is occurring, Ux-47 deserves a punishment.

  I shock him until he’s a squealing mess on the floor, and then I shock him until he stops yelling while he’s down there.

  I do make certain I keep a tight rein on my enjoyment, and I don’t shock him into a permanent silence.

  It’s tempting though. It really is.

  ***

  When I see exciting changes in Pet’s cycle, I begin to feed her directly in front of Prime’s enclosure. At first, she’s too shy to approach, so I have to edge her dish back a bit, attempting to compromise on the proximity she’s comfortable keeping to him.

  Each meal, I’ve moved her closer, until she’s flush with him. The feed trays are set low on the doors, and in order to eat, tenders get down on the ground right at their food’s level. This means Prime and Pet are face to face when they eat.

  Or they would be—if Pet didn’t choose to shift her body perpendicular to him, and pointedly stare off at nothing rather than turn her head and give him any attention. Even the barest scrap of encouragement.

  Patience, I tell myself. Females are notorious for being resistant to being paired.

  I allow her two feedings like this before I physically lift Pet and turn her so that she’s face-on with a subdued-looking Prime (his quiet, reflective mood is curious, and his eyes follow Pet constantly—I was certain he would be excited to have her forced close). That’s when Pet does something completely unexpected.

  She shoves away from me, takes up her dish, and marches to Beastly’s pen—and sets her bowl down in front of his door.

  “Absolutely not,” I declare.

  Beastly, on all fours as he eats, bows his head.

  Ux-47 shouts something, making Pet cringe. Without even glancing his way, I raise his stunner controller and punish him until he stops making noise.

  CHAPTER 7

  It takes several daycycles for the sprouts to appear.

  When Ux-47 immediately goes about stomping and deliberately tearing up his emerging greens, I stab my finger at him. “You are so lowly-stupid that I couldn’t make you appealing to one out of a thousand ready females!”

  In contrast, Beastly displays cunning by cupping his hands under his waterer to activate it, and carefully, patiently walking drinks of water to his seedlings.

  Prime, catching on quickly, tends to his flowers in the same fashion, with fervor.

  To my surprise—and scoffing—Ux-47 finally sees the purpose of growing female-attracting weeds and aggressively guards his flower sprouts from birds and the like, who would otherwise pick over what pushes up out of the dirt.

  It’s interesting to see that this project has given the males purpose, and they seem better adjusted for having something to do.

  I’m a little ashamed at how relieved I am when Pet’s sprouts struggle more than the others, no matter how much she tries to grow them. Her lack of success means she won’t be distracted from the males’ flowers; if she wants to see them, she’ll have to get close to them.

  With little point in playing in her plot of dirt, Pet follows me everywhere, making herself my welcome company. And when I work too long, tapping away at my screen, writing copious notes and crafting research papers, Pet will often creep between me and my desk, staring at me quietly, silently begging for my attention.

  Distractedly, I’m aware of how welcome even her intrusions are to me. Her staring is so loud that I often pause whatever I’m working on to pay her some small attention. If I were wise, I would put a stop to her disruption; it is somewhat rude behavior.

  But I could never punish her for it. She’s so respectful and earnest in seeking affection, that she ends up with strokes or treats, rewarding her for this disarming behavior.

  One daycycle, she even brings me some of her food—which was the point I realized I’d been starving, and my stomach had been cramping on me for microts, without me taking enough notice to stop typing.

  We’ve developed such an affinity for the other in such a short time. I can’t help but be deeply pleased with her in every way. And I cannot wait for the daycycle she has offspring. Her young are bound to be darling, and I hope they’re exact likenesses of her.

  In order to have infants as a possibility though, she must be bred. “Up on the table now, Pet,” I tell her.

  Each daycycle, she receives an examination to determine her readiness—and finally, finally, the daycycle has arrived.

  Physical inspection shows her body temperature is slightly elevated, and cervical fluid is present: Pet is receptive for breeding.

  When I tell her to stay on the table, and I move in the direction of Prime’s pen, Pet directly disobeys.

  She hops off the table and races for me, putting her small hands on my chest. Confident she has my attention, she then makes wide, pleading gestures at Beastly’s cage.

  Beastly’s nostrils are flared, and his eyes meet mine—and if a male could beg silently, he’s asking me to choose him for Pet’s breeding.

  I turn back to Pet. “But he’s…” I shake my head, and point to Prime, who’s whole, and attractive, and well-mannered—healthy, all things prime. “I like him,” I finish.

  Pet’s lips thin. “Thehn yoo shoolwd behnd ovair fohr heem.”

  Laughter explodes from Beastly, Prime—and Ux-47.

  I look around at them. That’s never happened before. I shake myself from the distraction. Tsking at Pet, I try to take her hand, and when she defiantly dodges to avoid being snagged, I catch her by her shock collar—which serves to remind her that she wears one—and steer her back to the table. “Up. I will suffer no rebell
iousness from you. You’re too good a female to misbehave like this.”

  Her eyes plead with me to reconsider.

  My gaze moves to Beastly. His jaws are clenched, his eyes swiftly moving from me to Pet and back to her.

  I look to Prime… but he’s not there. I knew he was growing distressed in reaction to Pet’s distress; he’d started to pace. To be so upset by her reaction only proves what a good, sensitive male he is.

  Why doesn’t she prefer him?

  Thankfully, I am not so shortsighted.

  Preparing myself not to falter in the face of Pet’s crestfallen expression, I turn, collect what I need, and enter Prime’s cage. When I step through the door that leads to his run, he sees me and stops pacing. He looks… resigned. Before I reach him, he lowers himself and plucks one of his greens. It isn’t anything more than a stalk yet, but I can see his sincerity in the gesture, and I’m pleased. I hope Pet will be too.

  Snapping a lead on his collar, I tug him right up to my face. “I trust you’ll service her gently.”

  Sighing, Prime bobs his head, gaze dropping to the ground.

  I twitch his lead to gain his attention again. I let him see my regret before I demonstrate the effect of the shock in his collar, lest he forget I’m in charge. “I hate to remind you so harshly,” I explain, “but I’ve read it’s really best with breeding males.”

  Literature says they grow quite excited during mating, and tend to forget themselves. During breeding is when they also show the most aggression, which makes sense in the wild, where they would be most vulnerable to attack by rival males. However, we are not in the wild, I am not a tender to compete for the honor of Pet’s receptive body, and Prime will respect me, or he will be punished.

  Grimacing, Prime nods again, his hand rising to his neck to rub at the area he received the negative stimulation.

  Feeling settled that he’ll behave, I lead him to the exam table, where Pet is sitting, fidgeting and eyeing me balefully. Before Prime approaches her, Pet hops off the table and turns around, bracing her hands on the edge instead—offering a back-breeding to Prime.