THE PET PROJECT

By Amanda Milo

Copyright © 2019 Amanda Milo ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties.  Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited.  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Yay or Nay?

DEDICATION:

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

Mini note from Amanda:

BONUS EPILOGUE

AUTHOR NOTE

FUN BOOK TRIVIA THAT YOU WILL PROBABLY NEVER USE IN YOUR DAILY LIFE

READER QUESTION FOR PET PROJECT:

Some Cures for A Book Hangover

Books & Audiobooks by Amanda…

About the Author

Yay or Nay?

Some readers don’t want warnings. Other readers appreciate them. There are members from both camps who get very passionate and vocal for their case.

What’s an author to do?

I’m going to tell you to scroll past this if you want no warnings. Jump in and enjoy, meine Freundin!

For those of you who want a warning, this be for you:

Pet Project has some triggery themes/moments. Some readers will be deeply disturbed, while dark romance readers are going to find this story ultra-tame. You know yourself. You know what you like. If you’ve got triggers, pass on this one. If you go for it, I hope you enjoy the read--I only ever want you to have a good time!

♥ *HUGS TO YOU, MY FRIEND* ♥

DEDICATION:

To R.

One word: REINDEER!

]:D

Pet: a domestic or tamed animal kept for companionship or pleasure.

CHAPTER 1

We acquired a previously unknown species of creature when we visited a small, water-logged planet, where the bipedal inhabitants flocked to us with eagerness and curiosity.

They say we opened up our ships, and these creatures filed on in droves. I’ve heard that those first crewmen, who watched excited specimens crowd into containment, were baffled at the aliens’ enthusiasm to enter into captivity—but the crewmen quickly learned that this species does best under strict rule. Although certainly, there were some wild specimens who didn’t race to climb into strange ships arriving in their land. We captured as many of those as we could, and a few shipments later, we’d collected as many unfortunate stragglers as we were able. It was the benevolent thing. The way they approached without fear, and the way they desired to follow direction… It was obvious these beings had been domesticated at one point or another, and domesticated creatures cannot fend for themselves. They simply don’t have the instincts and adaptations.

Unfortunately, as sometimes happens with exotics, the demand for the new species—designated as T. Skins or tenders (short for tender-skins)—exploded. A fierce tenders-peddling trade was born—unregulated. We sold our tenders to other planets. We offered them to emperors and empresses as gifts. We kept them as pets and put them on display, erecting fanciful enclosures for them in our gardens.

Some lived. Most died.

By the time we realized they had specialized needs in order to thrive, we had a dwindling supply of tenders left. With the demand high and the supply so low—and getting frighteningly lower by the day—we began in earnest to research what was left to us for stock. However, scientific stock did not come free. Science communities had to raise funding to afford each and every individual, and it took fortunes to amass small herds of tenders to study.

Distressingly, we found them slow to reproduce, with aggressive males and harm-susceptible females. To add to their difficulty level, their gestation was found to be excruciatingly lengthy—rivaled only by the sheer anti-speed with which they took to mature.

However, we deemed them worth the effort. Although we concluded them to be primitive, what made them of such galaxy-wide interest was their ability to read our intent—we’d point to an object and they’d turn their head to look, and so forth. They constantly display a higher cognitive understanding than most companion life forms. Tenders were also found to be clever, fascinating, and intrinsically playful creatures. At first, we thought they might be capable of speech, but it became evident that they only mimic our whistles, emitting gibberish notes instead of words. (Although they are quite capable of following commands in our language, especially if you keep your words simple, preferably in small, easy-to-discern notes.) They can be taught to dance and sing and even play instruments. If you’re lucky enough to afford a young female, she might bond to her owner/master/ruler’s offspring in the home, and frolic with them. There are even accounts of tenders attempting to guard their charges, even at the sacrifice of their own easily-ended lives. It was no wonder our peoples—and so many others—were smitten.

My people, the Cryptops, have considered collecting all surviving tenders from the citizens on our planet, but this has many risks. Chiefly, if the government carries this planet-wide collection out by force, tenders who have settled in and have had all their needs for survival met by their keepers could fail to thrive in a laboratory setting. Secondly, our citizens might revolt. Some keepers grow quite attached to their tenders, even if they don’t entirely understand them.

Considering the difficulty level of these creatures’ care and maintenance, imagine my delight when I’m selected to replace a scientist in the tender-keeping branch of our laboratory. I’m tasked with taking over the lab’s tenders breeding and research project.

This is my first daycycle at my new position and I arrive full of excitement, marching proudly through the doors of the Tenders Breeding Project… where I come to an abrupt halt.

A gleaming, well-equipped lab sits at my right. A large exam and servicing table is included, with plenty of space around it for a breeding male to move and for a handler to control and observe. Beyond the lab counters and cabinets is an observatory deck, and two steps down, the tender pens dominate the room.

Four cages jut out from the face of the walls. Thick sections of wall partition each one to keep tenders from damaging one another through the fence bars.

The pens and every item inside of them shines the silver of high carbon steels alloyed with chromium. Corrosion-resistant, and simple to sanitize. In each cage is a low cot for sleeping, an elimination bowl, an auto-waterer, and a feed tray slot in the door. This last feature is especially useful for male tenders, because they tend to pose the most danger to keepers and handlers during even the smallest windows of direct contact.

And staring back at me are three adult male tenders.

And… one female.

One female?

I blink, confused. Also jostling my thoughts is the demand that I process the ruined physical state that is the male in the third pen. But setting that aside for the moment, I gather myself enough to stride forward, exiting out a door that leads past the large outdoor runs for each enclosure. The byway that sits behind the row of runs is commonly called the ‘feeding alley,’ an access lane offering the keeper the opportunity to observe, or a point to gain entry in order to access tender enclosures for enrichment or cleaning. What I expect to see out here is the rest of a healthy herd of females, perhaps sunning themselves by a large pool.

But there is no pool. There is no lush grass for a herd of pregnant females to loll in, or trees for them to rest under when they desire a shady spot to take in the fresh air, their stomachs swollen with young. There is only a handful of straggling weeds and dirt, so dry it has peeled up and cracked and separated in places. The ground looks jagged and uncomfortable to walk on. Directly behind the female enclosure, the ground looks stained, with darker brown circles discoloring the dirt. Of the four pens present, looking deliberately shortened by a good length, the female’s cage is in fact the smallest of them all.

And no other females are contained therein.

“Only one?” I murmur to myself, in disbelief. “Impossible.” How could anyone expect to run a breeding program with only a single female?

Stalking back inside, I survey the room with a more prepared eye.

Not surprisingly, the males openly appear to be sizing me up, with the strongest-looking of them appearing aggressive, his glare saying he’s intentionally attempting to intimidate. He paces in the first cage. The male farthest from the door, shifting somewhat anxiously on his feet, eyes me warily. The male in the middle cage only watches me—but although his stare on me is direct, I decide it isn’t so much standoffish. Rather, he just looks intensely resigned.

In the second cage, the female seems understandably apprehensive, nibbling on her bottom lip and considering me with large, glossy eyes.

Before handling any of them, I stalk to the communication device inset on the far wall and contact the head director for the project.

My tour has raised many questions.

The head director informs me that the four tenders are all that are left of the project. It is my task to study their habits, encourage them to breed, and to report my findings. It seems my predecessor decided one daycycle to walk out of the department, and never return. All his notes and files have been stored in the anteroom off the laboratory.

Further funding for the purchase of more females is a possibility if I can yield positive results with the single female I have at hand. If no progeny are produced though, funding to the entire department could be cut, and the company would need to consider which employees are the most necessary to retain.

When the short but disenchanting discussion with the director ends, I hesitantly move to investigate the anteroom. What I find makes my already sinking heart plummet.

Haphazard stacks of clear storage tubs hold more memory-files than the sea has grains of sand. Everything the department knows about my four charges—my livelihood, in essence, because this program’s success means I keep my job—is somewhere amongst this disorganized nightmare.

Not confident enough to approach my charges yet—three of whom will no doubt challenge me straight off, something I simply don’t feel up to facing—I stay in the doorway of the antechamber. Finally, drawing on courage I don’t feel, I bravely march into the room, and begin the painfully slow process of sifting through the mountains of data and tender-program information.

CHAPTER 2

I’ve read that tenders vocalize in such a pattern that you’d almost swear they were capable of language, but if you put a random handful of tenders together, it’s clear most of them can barely understand each other beyond gestures and a lot of confused pointing. Some of their vocalizations are so vastly different from one another, it’s striking. It begs the question of how they procreate and raise their offspring if they don’t share even the barest of common communication.

I find four base profiles for my charges in one of the first tubs I sift through. Lenticular prints identify each one, and their assigned names are labeled below each three-dimensional image: Ux-47, T-96, B-63, and Yc-12.

I tell myself this find is a success that should be celebrated by taking a reading break, and I move to a strangely out of place chair, comfortable-looking, set facing the four pens. An observation seat, but oddly not up on the observatory deck. I suppose my predecessor enjoyed a closer view of his charges, perhaps formed amity by remaining so close, and I pledge to myself that I’ll apply my time wisely doing the same.

I know exactly how I want to begin, too.

I’ve been very excited to be entrusted with the keeping of tender females. I’ve heard so much about them, and their willingness to please their masters once they’re trained.

That I only have one female in the harem is a damper on my giddiness, but it does nothing to quell the still-pounding excitement at the prospect of having a tender under the control of my hand.

Masking my enthusiasm, I approach the female’s enclosure, and call her to me.

Understandably wary of a new handler, she shuffles a bit—at least until I lift the handheld control that will administer a reprimanding shock to her collar.

Lips flattening, eyes dropping to the floor, the female skitters to me most obediently then.

Naked save for her collar, there’s nothing to impede me from looking her over.

While it’s common to affix clothing to tenders—which is how we found them; they cleverly created coverings to protect their tender skin from harsh sunlight and debris and temperatures outside of their body’s comfort—this is not provided to lab-kept tenders due to the common early incidence of them using their garments to strangle themselves or others.

House-kept tenders tend to be better adjusted, and it’s almost unheard of for one to self-strangulate.

Why this is, we’re not certain, although I now have the opportunity to learn—hopefully with no harm rendered to my charges.

“That’s it,” I praise the female as she nears me. “You’re shaping up to be a good pet already, aren’t you?”

She heaves a sigh, and during her inhale, when her skin draws sharply over her ribs, I can see her heart muscle pounding against her skin.

“Hmm,” I muse. “This,” I point to the visible beat, “indicates you are on the extreme side of thin, if I recall my literature correctly.” I doubt her rations are insufficient; I hypothesize that something is causing her not to finish them then. Common reasons for this include unhappiness, illness, or trauma.

Concerning.

I read that some bodies appear to be built naturally sleeker than others, but for females intended for breeding, a proper diet—and a properly consumed amount—is optimal.

It is imperative to me that my lone female’s every need be met optimally.

“T-96,” I command, “follow me over here.” I gesture to where I’ll be sitting, and when she falls into rapid step beside me to cross the room, I smile down at her in approval. “Good female.” Then I inwardly frown. “I have the strongest urge to name you.” I have noticed this about house-kept tenders. There is no data to support the claim that a stronger bond is fostered with an affection-given name, but just in case there is any basis to the much-bandied theory, I’m inspired to give the jewel of my program a call name. “How about… Pet?” I ask her.

T-96 gives me a faint smile, and quickly raises then drops her shoulders. A tender mannerism that seems to indicate assent.

“Pet it is,” I declare, pleased, and guide her to where we’ll be sharing our first companionable silence. I indicate the kneeling pillow beside my chair. “Sit.”

When she complies, I order, “Stay.”

“Woof,” Pet answers and giggles to herself.

She’s already displaying a biddable demeanor. I’m so pleased. “What a charming creature,” I tell her.

I ease into the chair, and draw the built-in miniature desktop station over my lap. I can read and take notes, take dictation, access my daycycle planner, and check the weather all from this seat, with Pet keeping me company.

I imagine every daycycle beginning this way, and the thrill of excitement bubbles up in my throat as it did the morning I was informed I’d been selected for this project.

Mindset more at ease, I dig into what appears to be the earliest files on the four tenders in my keeping. I pore over the various documents and copious notes in each of their respective folders. Much to my relief, testing indicates these four are complete non-relations.

Good.

I access the dictation application and begin to make notes of my own.

“Initial thoughts on breeding plans: if Pet produces two female offspring, each one can then be bred to the two unrelated males.”

Pet begins to fidget beside me.

“If they each have a female offspring, these can be serviced by the males who did not sire them. This is linebreeding much closer than I’m comfortable working, but this is simply worst-case scenario if the laboratory cannot appropriate me more unrelated females.”

I refuse to consider that they won’t, especially if my program shows promise and bears any fruit—let alone if my program produces additional generations of tenders.

I continue making notes and reading over the data I have in front of me. Throughout this, once she settles, Pet sits quietly.

It’s comforting, to have her near.

After reading over my material, I feel more confident by far.

My impressions:

Ux-47 would be an appealing-looking specimen, if his poor manners didn’t overshadow everything, including his nicely symmetrical features. Ux-47, who is housed on the far left, is the closest in size to the average Cryptop, only a few handspans below me at six tender units tall, and twenty-six heads in weight. Unsurprisingly, his file says he has a long history of fights, and in fact, he is responsible for the damage done to the male in the middle pen.

The data lays out that Ux-47 escaped, with the intent to access the females. When he was unable to reach them, he went on a rampage, and the male in the middle pen became his target instead. I feel my eyes widen when I come to a log of multiple times Ux-47 has broken confinement since he was acquired. Each time, he’s attacked a fellow tender or handlers. Too aggressive to be the ideal candidate for Pet, I note.

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.

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 enclosure. 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.

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 rebelliousness 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.

This is suboptimal. It’s been documented that house-kept tenders who pair up of their own choosing often partake in belly-to-belly breeding, with lots of direct eye contact, staring each other right in the face, and mating their mouths as well as their reproductive organs.

And although it isn’t proven that this is the most effective breeding method, free-range house-kept tenders do have the highest rate of successful births.

Therefore, I’d prefer it if Pet allowed the belly-to-belly servicing.

However, I’m so fond of her that even if it’s a slight impediment to this program’s success, I’ll allow her a preference, at least for this first covering.

This new, lower height will make it more difficult for me to gain a decent view though—I have to lower the height of my chair, and lean down so that I’m nearly folded in half, elbows on my thighs in order to observe properly.

Prime, looking surprisingly uncomfortable, (but leaving no doubt as to why with the way he’s darting glances at me as I sit beside them, leaning forward so that I’m level with their reproductive-organ areas) approaches Pet slowly. Because she’s facing away from him, he reaches past her face to quietly lay his plucked greenery before her: a mating gift.

Pet stares at it before whispering two distinct sounds.

Prime clears his throat and utters one sound in return.

Fascinating.

When nothing more happens, I glance at Prime to see he’s hesitating. It’s Pet who turns, making a series of vocalizations, so similar to the way we Cryptops speak to each other it really, really is as if they’re actually conversing. But their sounds are so dissimilar. This may be why Pet adds an ill-spirited wave of her hand—although the irritableness may be for me, because she glares at me next before turning back around.

She lifts her hips. It’s perfunctory, but this is a clear breeding indicator, and Prime takes it as such, bringing his hand between her legs.

This is common of tender breedings. The male almost always penetrates the female with his digits first. House-kept tenders are reported to lick their females before breeding—but unfortunately, laboratory-paired tender males who attempt this just as often get kicked in the face by the female.

And perhaps this has happened to Prime before, because when he draws back his fingers and finds them dry, he doesn’t bend down to lick Pet. With his other hand, he rubs his jaw and moves it side to side, his shoulders dropping with his sigh.

“Pause,” I tell my study participants.

Prime backs away from Pet immediately, and I give him an approving look. “Good male.”

Pet doesn’t even turn her head to acknowledge me.

I move past them, and collect a breeding gel applicator.

Pet squeaks and turns on me when I brush the applicator over her outer reproductive area, and she squeaks again when I catch her by the collar so she can’t escape when I search for the erectile organ tucked under the anterior fold of her vulva, and coat it thoroughly.

When I release her collar, Pet kicks me.

I allow this, because I’ve read that chemically inducing arousal in an attempt to activate a female’s libido can aggravate them irrationally.

In the time it takes me to wash and dry my hands, Pet’s begun to pant. Sweat has broken out on her forehead and upper lip, and she squirms.

I take my seat and gesture for Prime to continue.

Pet’s fingers have turned into claws, dancing over the table edge instead of gripping it in a dutiful manner. When Prime’s hand strokes her buttock, Pet arches her back hard, tipping her pelvis up in a much more authentic offering than before.

Prime grasps her hips and gently brings himself close. His glans is bloated to the point that it’s shiny, and leaks excitement. His entire member is so rigid that it’s standing straight up, and he has to grasp it and struggle to angle it down for Pet’s opening.

When he inserts himself, he makes a harsh noise, gritting his teeth—and Pet goes still, sucking in her breath, dropping her head.

I’m alarmed and on my feet—unsure if she’s hurting or excited, but about to determine which of the two and ensure she reaches the latter—when Prime throws me a curled lip, and turns back to Pet, whispering to her, stroking her back until she nods her head. She never twists to look back, never raises her head, but as Prime begins to move, the breeding sounds grow wetter and wetter, the sucking and smacking of swollen reproductive equipment frictioning against one another. This is a good sign.

The breeding doesn’t take long. I am forced to repeatedly punish Ux-47 for hollering to the point that he distracts the pair. I am pleased that Prime reassures Pet with frequent caresses, mostly along her back, but he also reaches beneath her to tease her erectile member.

Pet’s pleasure-zenith hits her silently, only discernible by the trembling that strikes her limbs before she nearly falls limp.

Prime catches her up, his hips striking her buttocks loudly as he ejects his semen inside her.

I give them a moment to recover on their own; it’s best not to interrupt a male and female before they disengage. They’re said to grow quite surly.

When Prime pulls free of Pet’s sheath, he stares down, watching his reproductive fluid sluice out.

Pet doesn’t turn to nuzzle with him as some pairs do; instead, she tenses.

I take this as my cue. I draw Prime away from her, having to add force to incentivize him to leave her—not uncommon of a male after breeding. They all get possessive and territorial, even towards the handler they respect. I don’t take offense. I subdue him and return him to his cage.

Pet’s recovered enough out of the post-breeding stupor to fully stand.

But when I return to her side, she refuses to look at me.

In a smooth movement, I unfold an after-breeding blanket and catch a hissing Pet in it. I retake my seat, offering her water while I take notes and catalog the successful mating.

Pet falls asleep with her head propped comfortably on my shoulder. When I carry her to her cot and set her down, I feel a draft of air brush oddly along the area between my neck and the upper joint of my arm.

It’s wet.

And with discomfort, I realize Pet must have secreted eye-gland fluid after she was bred.

CHAPTER 8

Firm, affectionate touch—such as ensconcing a tender in your arms to offer a tender-like clench—or further contact, such as holding a tender on one’s lap, is a method for reducing their anxiety. It also stimulates receptors which are responsible for increasing trust.

I hold Pet frequently during the next two daycycles of her fertile window. The breeding is only repeated twice more, but Pet grows quiet. She doesn’t display unwillingness (she doesn’t even attempt to kick at me after I apply the arousing gel); she’s simply withdrawn.

She’s also stopped watching Beastly.

She no longer even looks at Beastly.

Beastly watches her though—constantly, with a knit brow. Whenever he looks at me, a muscle in his jaw jumps, and I believe the only reason he doesn’t snarl or bark at me is because sharp sounds might upset Pet.

She certainly doesn’t respond well to Ux-47’s nearly taunting-sounding vocalizations.

Thankfully, my request for a tender muzzle was approved, and I fit it on him the moment it arrives to the lab. The instrument works perfectly. It blocks all of his mouth, but he can stay conscious and alive as long as he breathes through his nose.

Prime’s appearance is constantly grim, especially when he watches Pet. He’s begun to obsessively run his hands through his hair in a perturbed fashion.

I work hard to repair the rift between Pet and I, holding her more and more, and slowly, the comfort improves her outlook and general well-being.

To my surprise, Prime calms somewhat whenever I hold Pet—which is good on several levels. I appreciate his concern for her happiness, and I’m also relieved that I have a way to externally comfort him, because male tenders who’ve reached adulthood do not respond favorably to the tender-style clench methods from handlers.

***

When Pet’s bleeding arrives, proving the breedings were a failure... I’m not certain who is the most distraught.

CHAPTER 9

Recently published research documents concluded that tenders find natural settings to be the most conducive to natural breeding inclinations.

Thus, for Pet’s next fertile cycle, when examination proves she is once again in a receptive state, I generously apply breeding gel to arouse her reproductive area. And when she’s panting and caught in the effects of the product so much that she’s even rubbing herself on me, I open Prime’s door and encourage Pet to enter Prime’s enclosure for the breeding rather than using the table.

I feel confident in Prime’s good temper and manners, but I keep tight hold of his stunner controller all the same.

Which isn’t easy when Pet begins working against my free hand—not to stimulate herself, but trying to back away from Prime’s open cage door.

When she sets her nails on my arm and twists to—I believe—bite my coaxing arm, I thump her on the nose.

It’s a light rebuke, with only one of my fingers, but Pet claps her hands over her face and crumples to my feet.

Prime transforms. Unthinkable rage tightens his features, and he roars and lunges for me.

I’m forced to administer a shock to keep him from attacking. Which I find most unfortunate, considering I admire his protective streak for Pet.

I have to admit: I’m also impressed at the ferocity in Beastly’s shout when I reprimanded Pet.

Pet, who is secreting eye-gland liquid quietly over my feet. I’m about to lift her, to apologize and demand her compliance so that I don’t have to punish her further, when Beastly vocalizes to her in an urgent tone.

Whatever the vocalization means, Pet whimpers—but she is encouraged to rise to her feet.

Angrily, she bats away my touch when I attempt to help.

Feeling unsettled, I take her wrists in one of my hands and swat her on the rump. “I don’t appreciate being forced to punish the others for your actions,” I explain. “I wouldn’t have had to punish you at all if you’d simply obeyed.”

I say this nearly being drowned out by two of the males, and Ux-47’s muffled breathing is loud, although I doubt he’s concerned for Pet. He gets excited during breedings.

Resigned, Pet meekly crawls into Prime’s enclosure.

He guides her to his cot, but she again refuses belly-to-belly clasping and takes a stoic all-fours position.

Prime kneels behind her, looking equally grave. But although at first Prime spends more time caressing Pet than breeding—just as I suspected, having the female in his own territory is extra satisfactory for him once he begins. His movements are little more dominating with her, his thrusts a little more possessive.

What I’m unprepared for is for him to drop his mouth to her back, roughly nose her hair from her neck with his snout, and bite her nape.

Pet cries out, shuddering hard under him.

At first, I’m alarmed, certain this is a negative reaction to the pain.

But then I see it’s a signal she’s completed the female pleasure-portion, her zenith making her muscles fire uncontrollably as she writhes under Prime’s fierce mating grip—and I relax.

Beastly does not. The moment Pet is bitten, he roars, throwing his cot, ripping his feeder bowl from the sliding tray and hurling it across the cage in a rage.

Ux-47 rowdily mimics him, simply for the opportunity to misbehave, I believe.

Prime pulls back from Pet, mouth closing, eyes squeezed shut, his teeth gritted.

He’s no more than finished inseminating Pet when she is the one to disengage them—ripping herself out from under him so quickly, he grunts and reaches for her.

But Pet makes a primal animal noise and ducks under his arm.

I’m standing at the door—I’d left the cage open in case I needed to intervene at any point—and Pet dodges under my arm too.

Rather than returning to her soft pillow by my chair, and rather than crawling into my chair where I’ll comfort her, Pet races into her enclosure…

And she shuts the door, locking herself in, and away.

CHAPTER 10

I stayed late, reading. Going over everything I could find about the psychological effects of hand breeding tenders. Pet refused treats, and her evening meal, and bared her teeth at me when I thought to force the issue and carry her out of her self-imposed exile.

Prime’s teeth did not break her skin, thankfully, and I do manage to drag a sanitizing cloth over the area before Pet begins hollering at a level to rival even Ux-47 at his loudest.

Prime walks to his outside run and doesn’t return.

When I leave the lab for the night, I can’t find rest. I turn the situation over and over in my mind. Pet seems to like Prime fine—as long as he doesn’t breed her.

Pet liked me too, before I made Prime breed her.

I need Pet bred; for my position’s safety, yes—and for Pet herself. If I don’t succeed at this endeavor, she will be turned over to someone else, or if the program ends, she’ll be sold to a private buyer. She may be happier there. She might not. What if she’s sold alongside Ux-47?

Trinary stars, NO.

I need this to work. I also need Pet’s spirits to improve. I don’t like seeing her upset. I can’t stomach her being this unhappy.

I return to the lab microts before my normal routine, eager to get back to Pet, to fix the damage I’ve caused. The sliding door is quiet as I make my entry, but not soundless. However, due to the raucous noise Ux-47 is making, no one hears me arrive.

I narrow my eyes in his direction. I was so distraught over Pet’s retreat from me that I didn’t muzzle him after his meal. The scoundrel stayed quiet too, no doubt hoping I was too distracted to notice.

I’m glaring at him, but he doesn’t see me. He’s too intent on craning his head, trying to watch something happening past the bars of his cage…

I follow his gaze and find Pet, out of her pen. I’d unlocked the door she’d shut after herself, hoping that at the very least she would take the liberty of walking the lab after I left, perhaps even return to her pillow to sleep.

She’s not sleeping. She’s backed herself to… to Beastly’s enclosure.

He’s down on his knees behind her, shoving himself against the bars to reach her, his tongue stretched out.

He’s licking her.

His fingers are curled around the wires to keep himself braced, but soon he’s forcing his large hand through the weave of the bars, trying to add his fingers into play also.

Evidently, his plans are defeated when his progress is prevented by the size of his wrist—he can do no more than barely reach his hand through.

Pet, panting loudly, hair in disarray, looks over her shoulder and grins at him.

Then she readjusts herself, sinking down on his upturned fingers.

I can only play the voyeur to their strange activity.

And I’m not the only one—Prime and Ux-47 are watching so intently I don’t believe they’ve noticed me. Both are sexually aroused, and Ux-47 is—no surprise—masturbating while he watches Pet simulating a breeding on Beastly’s large hand.

Prime is so focused on the pair it’s as if he’s studying every move they make. I realize he likely is. Obviously, if he wants to please Pet, this is the way to learn.

In contrast, Ux-47 is sneering at the frolicking pair, looking as mean as ever, even as he fists his mating member, thrusting himself aggressively as he watches them.

Pet seems determined to ignore them, not looking in their direction, even when Ux-47 repeatedly, raucously calls out, aiming rough vocalizations in her and Beastly’s direction.

Beastly seems to be struggling more and more to ignore the other male though, and even with the limited range of movement tender ears have, I note when his ears notch back slightly, and I watch the skin around his cheekbones and temples tighten. His jaw flexes also, hardening.

However, this tension all changes the moment Pet begins to cry out.

She makes a noise caught somewhere between a scream and a pleased purr—and for a moment, she’s suspended on his hand, her body quivering hard.

Unlike every zenith she’s experienced with Prime, she’s flushed and grinning with Beastly. When she finishes her trembling dance on his hand, she shakily straightens, raising herself off of his fingers, and turns to nuzzle at the bars.

Beastly obliges her, rising to his feet and roughly trying to nuzzle her back.

Then Pet drops to her knees—on her kneeling pillow, that she’s stolen from beside my chair, I see—and rests her chin on the fence wire’s weave. I’m wondering just what she’s doing when she opens her mouth… and receives Beastly’s mating member.

The mouth-breeding act! Of course I’ve heard of it, but it’s an odd aspect of tender mating not seen in laboratory settings. House-kept tenders are said to engage in this form of sexual gratification if they are fond of the tender they’re paired with.

I fold my arms over my chest as the two carry on, and I have to say I’m impressed at Beastly’s stamina. Pet works on his length for a long time before he releases into her mouth.

A waste, because there is no connection between a female’s mouth and her reproductive tube.

Then again, it wasn’t as if Beastly’s semen was being used for anything anyway.

That was something I intended to rectify when I came to the lab today. Prior to this, Pet’s made her preference plain. I had decided to acquiesce.

If I hadn’t, seeing this willing mating-play between the two would have convinced me.

Because for some inexplicable reason, Pet has a firm partiality to the Beastly male she’s still lapping at. And if he will make her happy, then… then I will be happy for her.

Beastly’s breathing is ragged as he draws his still-rigid member out of her mouth. His teeth are bared as he stares down at Pet, but he works his hand through the bars to hold her face. The touch is clearly affectionate.

Prime’s touch for her was affectionate too; Pet simply didn’t return the sentiment. Something she tried to relay to me on multiple occasions.

I clear my throat.

Beastly’s head whips up, and Pet twists, gasping when she sees me. She scrambles up and streaks for her cell—but I catch her by her arm before she can make it inside.

“Come with me, Pet,” I order her.

Her steps are easier when I lead her to the exam table rather than Prime’s pen. She keeps her chin raised and her eyes from mine when I ask her to get up on it.

When I take my seat to inspect her, she opens her legs almost defiantly. She wants me to see what Beastly does for her that Prime cannot.

Something no one could miss. Her tissues are swollen, and slippery. I’m surprised at the sheer amount of gathered slickness; it rolls over the bottom tong of my speculum’s forceps to stickily coat her labia and rear vent as I examine her.

I’m shocked at the amount of white-marked excitement gathered at her cervix; I have to check if it’s actually sperm, deposited in her somehow, at an earlier point in a part of their interlude that I missed.

But no, an examination of the material proves this is mostly Pet’s arousal, produced either due to her elevated hormones, or Beastly’s expert play of her body, or both.

A small portion is his saliva.

I lead Pet off of the table, noting how she’s bracing herself; she’s anticipating a return to Prime’s pen.

I lead her to Beastly’s cage.

When I look down at her, Pet’s eyes are bright and her lips are parted, her gaze on me grateful—and hopeful, as if she’s afraid to trust this is happening.

I give her a curt nod. “If this is the male that makes you happy, you can have him, Pet.”

With a choked cry, Pet throws her arms around me, giving me that tender clutch that I’ve missed.

I clutch her back.

When we draw away from each other, Pet’s beaming at me, repeating the same sounds slowly and in multiple, as if she hopes I can learn her incomprehensible form of tender-speak.

Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to learn Prime’s too, and I’ve failed at both. So I may not speak tender—but I can discern that this is Pet’s way of showing her gratitude at being allowed the freedom to choose who she’ll mate.

She brings my hand over her head, petting herself with it to show me she’s pleased with me right now.

And it makes me glad to see it. Finally, it feels as if I’m doing the right thing for her. For this confirmation alone, she can keep the inferior male she likes so much.

Giving my Pet a dry look of resignation, I unlock Beastly’s door for her.

Ux-47 pitches a fit to end all fits.

I point to him. “You’re about to be reacquainted with the muzzle, which I will keep strapped to your face through two feeding times if you don’t stop that infernal noise.”

Perhaps the first wise decision he’s ever made—he stops making his infernal noise.

Pet’s not paying him or his punishment any attention or concern, thankfully.

I turn back to Pet in time to see her nearly skipping into Beastly’s enclosure.

At first, Beastly stays rooted in place, staring at the vision of Pet greeting him unencumbered by bars.

And when she stops in front of him, her hands clasping and unclasping, her shoulders rounded small, her body shifting as she dances slightly on her toes as if she’s nervous and excited at the same time—

Beastly growls and attacks her.

Stunned, I nearly leap on him myself. If I’d had his shock controller in my hand at that moment, I would have held down the trigger until he’d been electrocuted.

But I’m not anywhere near his controller, because I didn’t think he’d harm my Pet!

The moment before I reach them, Beastly’s spun Pet around—and I register the broad grin on Pet’s face.

I stop rushing for them.

Pet throws me a playful wave, and wiggles her rear against Beastly’s groin region.

He growls again, his hands wrapping hard around her upper arms, bringing her elbows together over her back, pinning her—and Pet smiles wider.

She’s enjoying his aggressive reaction to her appearance in his pen.

I exit the pen when he bends her further forward and enters her.

Unlike with Prime’s breedings, I’m not set up to closely observe their coupling. I decide it might be for the best—their display is too raw and disturbing.

Beastly bites Pet repeatedly, marking her shoulder, her nape—just as Prime did, but with more fervor, as if he has a point to prove.

All the while, instead of becoming upset with him, Pet arches under him, crying out in a distinctly excited fashion.

Beastly answers her with snarls, and low rumbles; clearly delighting in her breathy responses and shrill cries as he takes her body to heights of satisfaction.

He services her so thoroughly, taking her again and again; I begin to wonder if these two’s coupling is going to require outside intervention simply to prevent Pet from being overbred until she can’t walk.

I’m searching the storage antechamber for noise-canceling headphones—dear trinary stars, who knew a breeding pair could even make such noise—when Beastly hauls Pet to the front of his cage, plants her hands against the fence, and enters her in such a way that he causes her to gurgle and drop, her knees buckling.

As if that’s not terrifying enough, Beastly doesn’t even pause his sexual attack on her—he simply follows Pet down to the floor of the enclosure, and ruts her while she lies prone on her belly.

If Pet’s muffled groans didn’t sound so encouraging, I would have devised a way to peel him off. Since she couldn’t sound more pleased with his savagery, I turn back and redouble my efforts for those silencing headphones.

I find them. Good thing too, because the breeding pair barely takes a break. And when they stir themselves, they just couple on the floor, staying right where they’d fallen.

I’m trying to stay focused and type, but out of my periphery, I can’t help but see how Beastly is rocking into her, this time with his body almost completely covering hers on the floor.

I’m worried about Pet being suffocated, but evidently, Pet is not—with a languid move, she reaches her arm up and above her back, where she strokes her hand against Beastly’s face.

He drags his bristled cheek over her palm, making her buck under him.

This encourages him to drag her hips up, forcing her to gain her knees, and he leans back, watching himself as he pistons into her again and again.

And again.

“Good Creator,” I mutter to myself. “If she doesn’t conceive, it won’t be from a lack of attempts.”

At feeding time, the breeding pair are too overtaken with each other to finish their meals. By nightfall, I’ve entered the last of my notes—at a great understatement too. “In Beastly’s case, it would appear age does not at all diminish endurance. Or frequency,” I add wryly, when the pair’s cries signal their culmination yet again.

I’m late for leaving, but I’m too concerned about Pet’s welfare to close the lab and go home.

I’d swear Beastly is dragging out their mating; he seems disinclined to rush anything about their last coupling of the day. His thrusts have turned sluggish—a speed which earns no complaints from Pet, who’s arching under the slow kisses he’s placing on every part of her body that he can reach.

For her part, Pet’s eyes are dark, her pupils so large she’s either aroused or under the influence of powerful chemicals.

I know for a fact she’s not been introduced to the latter, but I’m inclined to believe there is a possibility of Beastly’s pheromones having drugged her.

Beastly rolls Pet to her back (and I note—not for the first time—that unlike Prime’s couplings, Pet is pleased to be in any position under Beastly, especially when he takes her belly-to-belly), slides his hands under her shoulders, and wraps his arms around her. Then he buries his face in her throat and melds their hips firmly together, his back arching with the thrust.

If I hadn’t seen every variation of tender matings (most of which I viewed today alone), I might have missed that he finished seeding her.

However, I have become quite acquainted with this pair’s workings.

And finally, Beastly isn’t male-handling Pet into a new breeding position. He appears as replete as she does.

I sigh, pleased to see this, and approach the pen.

The pair pays me no attention at all. They may as well be in their own little world.

Not disengaging with her yet, Beastly deliberately applies his stubbled face—as sharp-looking as quills—on Pet’s soft skin, burning her breast tissues, her throat, her upper arms, and chin. As he rubs his marks on her, ignoring her hoarse squeaks and laughs, he reaches between them, fingers playing at Pet’s pleasure region until she’s quaking beneath him.

I pause, hanging back to give them a moment of private time after she cries out. Then I call to her. “Pet, it’s time to leave.”

Immediately, Beastly’s muscles snap taut.

Pet rolls up on an elbow, twisting at her torso in order to look at me. Her gaze implores me to leave her in with him.

“For the whole night?” I ask in disbelief. “Will he let you sleep?”

Pet snickers, before tossing a besotted look back at the male she prefers to all others. He doesn’t smile back, but this is probably because he’s focusing on her so hard, he can’t. He’s staring at her like he’s trying to memorize every detail about her.

I point to him. “Beastly?”

To my gratification, he pulls his gaze away from her to give me the attention I’m demanding. I give him a stern look. “Treat her well.”

Beastly nods—and to my surprise, he dips his head and utters two tender vocalizations. If I’m not mistaken, this is a tender acknowledging expression—a pleased one. I’ve started a paper on my theories surrounding these sounds, and I hope to glean a recording of the vocalization for further study.

Pet wriggles until she’s no longer pinned beneath Beastly, and stretches for a moment once she’s free—then she crawls to me, all of her limbs loose, her body so relaxed she resembles a disarrayed little noodle. I reach my fingers through the bars and brush an approving touch over her head, my mouth quirking up when my fingers can’t get past the knots in her hair.

CHAPTER 11

“You will let her leave, or I will subdue you, and take her,” I warn Beastly firmly the next morning. It’s difficult not to be cross with him, what with the way he’s snarling at me, challenging me for Pet. But I won’t be moved today. “I’ll be examining her, with or without your approval.”

She’s bruised, fingermarks and bite impressions painting her everywhere—but as she saunters out of Beastly’s cage, she’s wearing the most satisfied grin I’ve ever seen on a female.

However, I’m cataloging every concern with dismay. Most notably that she’s almost limping.

Shoving a cup of pulpy fruit into her hands as she passes me, and handing her a specialized drink that will replace some of her surely depleted carbohydrates and sodium levels, I toss the same onto Beastly’s cot. Then I shut his door and follow my bedraggled, sticky, rut-soaked Pet towards the exam table. “What an animal,” I mutter as I take her appearance in.

But Pet—her cheeks stuffed with fruit—melts herself against me to offer one of her tender clutches to my midsection, where she also pats me, as if I’m overreacting.

I sigh, feeling less worried but not ready to concede that just yet. “I’m glad you’re happy,” I tell her honestly, and Pet takes a thirsty swig of her replenishing drink, smiling at me.

***

“Stop that noise,” I warn absently, flipping through another tub of data. I’ve finally found documentation of bath times, not that this is of any use to me now. However, there are a lot more data reels in this tub than for just the four tenders kept in this lab.

When Beastly grunts at me again, I sigh and set the tub to the side. “I told you. Two more daycycles. At the very least. She’s so swollen I’m surprised she wasn’t screaming under you.”

Pet laughs in such a way that there’s no question she did scream—and she enjoyed it, which makes Beastly send her a hot look before he turns a smirk on me.

“Lustful little pests,” I sigh, ignoring Pet’s snickering and Beastly’s rumbling chuckle.

I’m about to head into the antechamber to dig out yet another tub for categorization, but Pet moves into my path. With evidently no other reason than to display her affection for me, she lifts my hand to her lips and kisses my knuckles.

Feeling more attached to her than ever, I sift my other hand through her hair. “You’re such a lovely creature.”

Pet’s lips—her swollen, bruised lips—quirk, and I give her a conciliatory tip of my head. “Very well. Maybe today you don’t appear like a winning specimen”—curse Beastly for molesting her so thoroughly, no matter how much they apparently both hunger for a repeat—“but you’re still lovely.”

With Pet shadowing me, giving me too-innocent, pleading eyes, it isn’t long before I abandon the data room in favor of feeding the males a little early. I suppose I’d better repeat the double helping I doled out to Beastly this morning too, because he still looks as if he lost a head’s weight overnight, the scoundrel. Did he sleep at all? Did he let her sleep at all? I’ve noticed her yawning today. The objective is to impregnate her; not ravish her into a coma.

Muttering, I start at Ux-47’s cage, opening his door, calling him forward, and removing his muzzle. He doesn’t try to dodge around me to break free today, which makes me narrow my eyes at him. I back out of his pen, slam his door shut, and drop down to access his feeding tray. I move to measure out his ration, when Ux-47 catches me by surprise—quite literally—reaching right through the bars and taking hold of my wrist. He jerks my hand up to his mouth, and I grit my teeth, preparing for a bite.

Instead, he kisses my knuckles, almost like Pet did.

There is one important distinction, however. Pet wasn’t glaring at me as she did it.

Unlike when Pet did it, Ux-47’s eyes do not hold affection or softness.

It’s hard, cruel eyes that gaze up at me, showing too much calculation.

I cuff Ux-47’s ear, slap his hand away, and shoot him with the stunner until I have a mess of urine to spray off of him and off of his floor. “You are a loathsome creature. Do nothing to provoke me; this lab has been offered a fee if we provide unwanted tenders for the purpose of vivisection and research. Don’t tempt me.”

With that, I move to Beastly’s pen, doling out three rations for him, all the while noting his incredibly relaxed manner today—and his genuine-seeming gratitude.

Against my better judgement, I unlock his door. Pet skids to a stop behind me, pressing the palms of her hands together.

I wave her inside. “If you’re sure you want to be in there again…” I don’t even get to finish saying this before Pet’s dashed past me and thrown herself into Beastly’s arms.

CHAPTER 12

Beastly’s weeds sprout flowers. Every day, he bestows one upon Pet, and every day, she accepts them with the same enthusiasm and appreciation as if it were the first time.

Beastly displays high cognition when he leaves a row to go to seed. With this, he replants. Unexpectedly, when I come to collect Pet one day, he sends her out the door with a handful of flower seeds—which Pet takes to Prime.

Prime looks as stunned as I feel, and accepts them with a vocalization to her and a deep nod to Beastly.

Pet spends much of her time with her male, and I find myself… lonely. I miss her when she’s not beside me. I miss her so much, that when she’s locked in Beastly’s pen with him, I begin to take Prime out, training him to sit quietly beside me.

Of course he doesn’t require much training at all. He’s watched Pet and he’s fantastically well behaved. I would lament once more that Pet won’t have him, but she's so superclustered pleased with her Beastly that I can no more in good conscience complain.

When Prime isn’t out, I begin to leave Beastly’s cage door open so that the radiant pair can venture out together.

Pet is thrilled.

I obtain the largest kneeling pillow on the market but find it still doesn't quite fit Beastly’s frame. Up close, without the safety of welded and woven chain fence separating us, he’s actually larger than he seemed. He may not match Ux-47 in size, but he’s much, much larger than Pet.

He doesn’t use his size to intimidate or harm though, never abusing his privilege.  Beastly is cautious when loose, but grateful, and behaves admirably, never mounting Pet outside of his cage—though he does drag her back into his pen from time to time to attack her, which always makes her giggle and purr.

I like seeing them both so carefree.

It’s with a smile on my face as I listen to the oversexed pair frolic that I begin my most concentrated, sincere effort yet to organize the data room. Each time I attempt this, I find I would rather literally do anything else—even wrestle Ux-47 down to clean and disinfect the wounds that have sprouted everywhere his muzzle chafes his face.

But I’ve already done that today.

I’ve cleaned and disinfected everything, including the tenders. I’ve caught up on all my notes and even my interoffice mail.

With a groan, I wade into the room and begin.

***

Pet’s bleeding does not come.

I’ve never been so beside myself with excitement as I am the daycycle I confirm my Pet is pregnant. Beastly grasps the concept just fine, because when I release Pet from the exam table and load her down with treats, she takes herself right to Beastly’s cage, where they celebrate.

He even places his large hands over Pet’s stomach, staring down as if he can see the tiny speck they’ve created, and if he becomes a little more aggressive in his protection of her, I allow it because I approve.

With this success, I’m promised an additional female for our program—with more to come, especially if Pet produces any rare morphs.

Odd-eyes or Albinos, for example.

Whereas I was excited by the prospect before, now I’m distressed at the possibility; fervently hoping that Pet never produces specialty young. Because without having to experience it, I’m certain it will hurt Pet to be separated from her offspring.

It will hurt me too.

Not to mention Beastly, who treats Pet as if she were glass now.

So no, no rare morphs, please. I’ve invested most all of my own income into the program, funneling it in as an angel investor. And as of now, I have ownership equity of all the tenders under my care. This means the laboratory will have to cede to my wishes when it comes to decisions involving my program’s subjects.

...But I’d rather not test anyone’s hunger should they feel they have opportunity to monetize my Pet’s offspring.

***

It’s one of these quiet, enjoyable, and peaceful daycycles at the lab when I open yet another disorganized project-file box and halt in shock when I see the material inside is dated directly prior to my arrival onto the project.

When I spy a video reel, I hungrily collect it, and set it to play on hyperspeed.

Pet, wonderful female that she is, had joined me when I first started muttering over the day’s trial of neatening records. Most daycycles she sits beside me, but lately, she’s taken to crawling on my lap again, and I love to brush my fingers through her hair as she naps. I find I complain less (at least out loud) in deference to her pregnant self needing her sleep.

As for the video, there’s no sound that plays at this speed, so she won’t be disturbed, and once it flickers on, I see I have a bird’s eye view of the cages in the lab.

My hand stalls in stroking Pet’s hair when I realize I’m watching Ux-47 break free from his pen.

The timestamp in the corner of the screen shows that my predecessor likely ended his shift mere microts before—therefore, Ux-47’s actions go unmonitored save for the camera. There are no other safeguards. There’s nothing to stop him when he easily opens up the female’s pen with the push of a button.

There used to be five females. And—superclusters!—they were healthy, lovely, young females, perfect for breeding.

That’s what Ux-47 must think too.

Over the long night, the brute force-breeds females to death.

I’m incapable of looking away, but I can’t watch this with the remote distance of scientific observation. Especially when he reaches for Pet, terrorizing her, the last female still capable of moving.

Beastly is throwing himself at his cage’s bars, frothing, spittle flying as he snarls and pleads for Pet—his beloved mate—maybe not then, not yet, but he’s just as desperate to protect her then as he would be now.

It’s Prime who manages to escape his cage and come to Pet’s rescue. Ux-47 is tired from his evil exertions, and is therefore not as formidable against Prime’s attack as he would otherwise be, I’m sure.

Once Prime beats him, he drags Ux-47 out, throws him in his damaged cage, and locks Pet’s enclosure door again. There, he stands guard all night, keeping her and the remaining females as safe as he can.

One female recovers enough to rise. She moves to the outdoor run, approaches a jagged, bent-inward bar in the back of the enclosure—the pen used to be larger at some point prior to my arrival, but they shortened it, perhaps because Pet would never have wanted to revisit that defiled area—and she slices herself on the sharp, exposed metal.

She slices both of her arms, and Pet is crawling towards her, stricken, looking as if she’s pleading.

That’s when my predecessor arrives for his shift.

The video captures his approach. His ravaged expression as he cradles the dying female—and I think… I think he must have felt as much for this female as I do Pet. There must have been a fondness between them, because he… he weeps as she dies.

When her body hangs limp, lifeless in his arms, he sets her down on the ground, his shoulders shaking.

Then he stands and walks out.

He just… he just abandoned everything. His career, the ongoing project—his tenders.

His murdered pet tender.

I’m gasping—rage is burning through me, and I know that I would have done one last thing before I left.

Slowly, I raise my head and stare dead on at Ux-47.

I can’t undo the damage that was done, but it’s past time to do this.

CHAPTER 13

I call in the colleagues who had been searching for the opportunity, and together, we perform vivisection on Ux-47.

While we’re experimentally operating on living creatures for the benefit of science, it doesn’t mean it’s an undertaking that other living creatures should see—especially if the one under the knife is their species. Normally, this would be performed at an off-site location.

However.

In consideration to the three who so suffered at Ux-47’s hands, we begin the procedure in-house and watch their reactions. I’d explained to my tenders beforehand that this would never be their fates; this was the best punishment I could think of for Ux-47’s crimes, and if they wanted to see justice rendered, it could be done right here, where the perpetrator caused so much pain and harm.

As if they understood my every word, my three solemn tenders had nodded. They wanted to be witness to Ux-47’s termination.

Prime and Beastly watch, stone-faced.

Pet clings to Beastly, watching too. Pet, who has such a kind, sympathetic nature, does not shed a single drop of eye-gland fluid.

After witnessing what was done to her by this male, I didn’t expect her to.

CHAPTER 14

The sun finishes its revolution around our planet. Funds granted after Ux-47’s vivisection offered me a way to expand the scope of my tender enrichment efforts. Larger enclosures, with the focus of comfort and interesting features, was my main goal. I also purchase tender-sized clothing, although Beastly rarely leaves Pet’s on. Not until I find a garment that hangs loose around her legs so that all he has to do to access her is pull her covering up and bunch it at her hips. Thankfully, a female’s clothing fares longer if her male isn’t constantly ripping it off.

When spring’s light hits the outdoor enclosures, and flower sprouts start to come up, Pet is so heavy with young that she can barely do more than assist Beastly with watering the rows of plants.

I’ve never been so stressed in my life as I am in her last weeks of pregnancy. As I mentioned, Cryptops learned early that we cannot involve ourselves in the birthing process, for fear of causing complications and unexplainable infant mortality. Normally, tender females support each other, with a matron female acting as birth-organizer over the laboring female.

Pet has no such luxury.

Beastly is her partner in this all the way though, and when I explain what must be done, he studiously takes in my every word.

And although plenty of footage and articles prepared me for the concept of a female giving birth, Pet’s labor is so traumatizing that, if she didn’t love Beastly so much, I’d keep them separated so that she never, ever goes through this again.

Beastly seems to be of the same mind. He carries so much tension and strain during Pet’s grueling delivery, I don’t believe I’ll have to pen him up to stop him from mounting her any time soon.

When Pet holds her baby female in her arms, she smiles tiredly up at me—and offers for me to see her little one up close.

This gesture of trust from her provokes such emotion in me… well, I’m absolutely not too proud to share that my eyes get wet.

Her baby is beautiful. The little one’s hair is her father’s, the strands far, far wispier of course, but the color is brown and wild-looking, just like his. And thank everything above, she otherwise looks just like Pet. I say as much too—and Pet gasps and slaps my arm.

Beastly laughs though, and makes a sound that I’ve categorized as tender agreement.

My study of tender vocalization has led me to believe they have different sub-languages, and that is why they can’t always understand their own species with ease. There seems to be a base expressive language that they all share though, where they watch faces for clues and micro-expressions.

Prime seems to speak an entirely different sub-language than Pet, although at some point or another, they’ve learned a few of each other’s words.

Beastly also seems to speak a variant language, but it is close enough to Pet’s that they have an easier time communicating, and a great many shared words between them. As much as I’d like to think that shared language played a factor in their romance, I’ve seen the way Pet responds to Beastly. Words have very little to do with feelings and action.

I’m in the middle of removing the placenta from where Pet expelled it, when Pet begins acting as if she’s laboring again.

I straighten, shocked, as Beastly rushes to me, handing me their baby.

“I shouldn’t touch—it’s not safe—”

Beastly growls at me, eyes fierce, and presses the tiny infant—very gently—into my too-large hands.

Cupping her, bringing her up to rest over my heart, I hold the tiny female, torn between absorbing the wonder of this moment—and my terror for her and her mother.

Germs. Pathogens. Twins? Having twins is not unheard of, but it happens so rarely that I don’t know any laboratory who’s been blessed with them. As wonderful and idyllic as the idea is, I also would never have wished twins on Pet, because there is more risk—and for all hell and heaven, it means she’s in labor twice in one starclustered day!

I sink down to my haunches when Pet’s second baby is birthed and cleaned.

The new little one is also a female.

She also looks nothing like Beastly.

She looks everything like Prime.

Like her sibling, she also has hair on her head—a full mane of it! Dark, short, silky-wet strands that turn to sticky chunks as Beastly gently dries her off. And she has monolid eyes, with no crease like Pet’s firstborn.

Starbursts. I just became the proud keeper of bi-paternal twins. Pet’s birthed twins from two separate fertilized eggs from two different males!

I’ll be doing studies and bloodwork until the end of time, but the parents need no tests to discern what I see—what’s apparent. Beastly lays this second girl on Pet’s stomach, the lifecord stretching. Beastly repeats the cord-severing process he carried out for the first little one, using the sanitized tools I provided them. Pet passes the second placenta, straining and struggling less than with the first one.

Pet nuzzles and coos to her child, smiling up at Beastly who leans in to run his nose against Pet’s. Then he transfers his gentle nuzzling to the tiny back and slender neck of the babe. By some silent signal with Pet, he takes the baby to his own chest, and kisses the top of her head. Then he moves past me, carrying the little fuzzy-headed girl to her father, who is glued to the front of his cage, hands wrapped around the bars, looking as if he, too, is wet-eyed.

Beastly passes the infant to her sire, and then he’s the one gripping the bars, watching with sharp eyes and a passive expression as Prime snuggles the little one.

Beastly is a finer male than I gave him credit for in the past; he shows no malice, but he isn’t abandoning this offspring of another male either—he remains at the bars, waiting to take her back.

Prime appears deeply moved as he holds his progeny. But soon, the little one begins to fuss for her mother, and Beastly reaches in, carefully, oh-so-carefully, taking her back.

She quiets immediately in Beastly’s hands, which is a surprise. But it’s wonderful that she’s comforted by him.

Prime watches them go, looking sad.

I’m grateful the expansion project allowed me to rearrange the cages. Ux-47’s section became the data room, allowing an extra-wide pen for Pet with an extended outdoor enclosure (which reaches all the way against Beastly’s pen, no wall between them any longer), and on Prime’s side where the data room used to be, there’s a brand new cage, one where he completely shares a fence.

With his new lady.

I think he’ll benefit from constant contact with his female if they don’t wish to cohabitate like Beastly and Pet prefer to do. But I hope they will.

I’m also hopeful that Pet and Beastly will allow Prime to visit with his daughter by Pet for always.

Beastly’s turning away when Prime utters two guttural sounds that I’ve recorded as tenders acknowledging a gift. Prime makes the vocalizations in the language Pet and Beastly share.

Beastly pauses—then he turns, and nods to Prime, accepting the words.

Seeing this interaction, I have to believe these three might raise Prime’s daughter together.

Prime’s future mating female, who is very timid, actually approaches the bars as Beastly moves away. When Prime doesn’t react to her, she sidles up to him, startling him by reaching through the bars to hold his hand.

Progress.

This time around, I’ve learned not to rush a breeding couple. Prime’s been hard at work to impress his neighbor, tending his flower sprouts like they’re treasure—and it’s my sincerest wish for him that his female sees them exactly like that.

It’s my sincerest wish that she’ll think he’s treasure too.

Thankfully, she watches him constantly and reminds me of Pet in her early daycycles of gazing upon Beastly, so I have high hopes.

Pulling me out of my musings, Beastly strides past me—but then he stops and catches my gaze. He jerks his chin at me, his way of indicating he (and by extension: Pet) has invited me closer.

“Oh, of course!” I say, shaking off the dismay that I’ll have to return the infant clinging to my throat and chest where she’d been nuzzling. “As I was saying, it’s not safe for Cryptops to handle tender infants—”

Pet accepts her daughter from me, then captures my hand, squeezing my fingers. She rolls her eyes at me, a tender signal meaning whatever a Cryptop has just said is ridiculous.

Beastly’s nudges my arm with his shoulder, surprising me.

He’s still holding Prime’s offspring, and my jaw drops when he raises her up for me to take.

“She’ll cry,” I say in bewilderment, looking to Pet, who is not growing upset that Beastly has not returned her newborn to her breast. “She needs—”

Prime’s daughter gazes up at me with slightly unfocused but lovely eyes, and… no fussing.

“Oh my,” I say, stunned.

I would be fond of any offspring Pet produced, but oh, how I feel an instant adoration forming for this one.

Heedful not to jostle or drop her, I move to Pet’s side, and Beastly helps me fit Prime’s offspring on the other side of Pet’s chest, so that she has two squirming bundles. As the little ones begin to search for food, Pet gazes at their little faces, and clasps their little heads in her palms, her thumbs stroking over their brows.

No mother has ever looked prouder.

Beastly lays an infant blanket over the pair of tiny tenders, and together, the parents help the little ones nurse.

Pet curls forward enough to place tiny kisses on their little fuzzy heads.

Beastly brushes back Pet’s sticky hair, resting his hand across her forehead in affection and reassurance.

And Pet beams up at me, if possible looking even more content than I feel.

THE END ♥

Mini note from Amanda:

The story was done, but I wanted to *know* that these people were all going to be okay. If you are craving the same reassurance, read on! (If you don’t need more, skip past this for some Cures for Book Hangovers and other fun. :D) The following is from the perspective of a being who meets up with our keeper (XAN’-TAY`్) and his humans about thirty-six years after the twins are born.

BONUS EPILOGUE

INTERVIEW WITH DR. XAN’-TAY`్

Today I have the great honor of interviewing Dr. Xan’-Tay`్; expert tender researcher, breeder, advocate, and enthusiast. [INSET LENTICULAR CAPTURE: Xan’-Tay`్ with Prime, Lady, Beastly, and Pet, his first tenders, and their offspring, and their third generation (being held by Pet and Lady).] Dr. Xan’-Tay`్’s facility had humble beginnings, but is now the most prestigious, respected authority on tenders in all of the galaxy. Emperor Kytome`yer of planet Mar-Issa formed an alliance with our Commonwealth after purchasing a proven breeding pair of tenders from Dr. Xan’-Tay`్, because, he was cited as saying, “The planet to produce such fine, well-trained, well-adjusted tender specimens is a planet worthy of joining forces with. Dr. Xan’-Tay`్’s tenders are a constant delight for my family, and I’ll never forget the way our male tender protected my son during the daycycle of the attempted abduction.”

[SEE OUR NEXT ISSUE FOR COVERAGE ON THE NEAR-ABDUCTION OF THE YOUNGEST IMPERIAL HIGHNESS, AND THE SHOCKING RESCUE BY EMPEROR KYTOME`YER’S TENDER.]

This glowing praise and political landfall spurred our ruling families to bestow the doctor with an official recognition of success for his outstanding work. [LENTICULAR CAPTURE, RIGHT: Dr. Xan’-Tay`్, with Beastly and Pet at his side as he accepts The Purple Prize Bell.]

To begin our interview with the doctor, I’ve been invited to his facility and home, which was once a laboratory.

Immediately, I’m taken with all the tenders I pass on my way to the facility entrance. The extensive grounds of the tender breeding and rearing site boast massive outdoor enclosures, with beautiful foliage and attractive weeds, but it seems as if none of the tenders use the greenery cover to hide from a newcomer; they follow me on their side of the fence, the younger ones playfully keeping pace with me. If you’re surprised I wasn’t given a harsh greeting by male guard-tenders, don’t be; Dr. Xan’-Tay`్ had me keep him apprised of my arrival time so he could call in the males from their self-appointed fence patrol. He didn’t want me to feel intimidated by their protectiveness, which they display loudly and aggressively towards strangers.

Still, the moment the door opens and I’m welcomed inside, I’m immediately met by two adult male tenders. Awed, I can only stare at them, and the doctor must take my silence for fear because he orders them to their pillows, telling them I’m a guest.

The tenders all call out as I enter. It’s startling, although it’s not harsh or intentionally loud sounds that they’re making. Oddly, they all nearly make an identical sound for the same length of a beat.

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “Hear that vocalization? That’s a greeting.”

INTERVIEWER: “I’ll take your word for it: you are the expert. And you’re working with other well-known tender handlers to develop a communication device, aren’t you? How’s that project coming along?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Sighing.] “Slowly. But yes. Yes, we do hope to see the daycycle when we can effectively communicate with tenders.”

He waves me to a chair, and we both take a seat. I take a moment to absorb the vast space: a palatial playroom for tenders of all ages. There’s pillows and toys and resting spots and ambiance plants and water dishes and food bowls set out all over the area. Some tenders sit in pairs, others rest in clusters of youths and adults. Some are playing, some are wrestling, and some are napping.

Most are watching me.

The chairs we sit in are in the center of it all, and this clearly shows the doctor’s stance on where keepers should be with their tenders: closely interacting right among them. The doctor is holding an infant tender in his arms, and when it begins to nuzzle at his chest, he calls for the tender’s mother.

I try not to eye the young tender too greedily. Readers, believe me when I say I wasted no time getting myself on Dr. Xan’-Tay`్’s legendary list for pedigreed tenders, which he only sells in mature, mated pairs. As most of you are probably aware, Dr. Xan’-Tay`్ is firmly against the practice of selling weaning-age and juvenile tenders, and he’s been quite vocal on the subject, citing examples of unfortunate cases all over the galaxy as his reasoning to wait until tenders are fully developed before separating them from their family units. He’s protective of all the tenders in his care, and he’s turned his life’s work and personal passion into an empire.

I cannot wait to ask the man questions. I jump right into the interview.

INTERVIEWER: “Thank you for agreeing to chat with me. It’s been such a dream of mine to meet you, Doctor.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Nodding absently as he catches a young tender who launches itself for his lap. An adult male follows—the sire, I assume—shaking his head at the young’s antics, but then he smiles and sits down, settling himself so that his back rests against Dr. Xan’-Tay`్’s leg while Dr. Xan’-Tay`్ tickles the young tender until it’s shrieking with giggles.]

INTERVIEWER: “It’s obvious you adore your tenders. I read that you chemically retired your original breeding pairs. That must have been a difficult decision for you.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Looking amused as the young drops off his lap to scamper after a herd of other similar-in-age tenders. The adult male stays at his side. Guarding him, I realize, when the male makes direct eye contact with me and doesn’t break our stare.] “As much as I would have been overjoyed to welcome more beloved offspring from my first-generation tenders, it was apparent in their last birthing sessions that it would be too much stress for them to carry and deliver again.”

INTERVIEWER: “For you or for them?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Barks a laugh.] “Very perceptive! The answer is simply yes.”

INTERVIEWER: “So you created tender hormone blockers to prevent conception.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “That’s right.”

INTERVIEWER: “When your second-generation tenders reached breeding age, you employed a rather unorthodox method to see them paired. Can you tell us a little bit about that?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “The first pair of second-gen tenders was a set of beautiful twin females, Aiko and Kee-va. The common practice at the time was to purchase the best tender male specimen you could afford, and bring the female to his enclosure or take him to her at the breeding table.”

INTERVIEWER: “But what did you do?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “I packed the twins and their parents into an airship and toured the best studlots our planet had to offer.”

INTERVIEWER: “And did you find what you were looking for?”

[An adult female tender strolls up carrying a plate of food, which she sets on Dr. Xan’Kt=Ty`4`’s lap before reaching up to kiss his cheek. I recognize her from countless lenticular captures, but the doctor confirms her identity when he cups her chin in his hand and says, “I worked through lunch again, didn’t I?” When the female gives him a disapproving moue in answer, he laughs and says, “Thank you for bringing me supper, Pet.”]

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Turning back to me.] “It wasn’t that I was looking; I was giving the twins the opportunity to choose.”

[Pet crosses her arms, telegraphing weighty expectation.]

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Sending me an apologetic look.] “Just a moment. If I don’t eat, she frets.”

INTERVIEWER: “You have no idea how fascinating this is to watch. Go ahead.”

[Mouth tipping up in a way that plainly says he’s aware of how entertaining his tender brood is, Dr.Xan’Kt-Ty`్ dutifully crunches on a wiqsaiia stalk while Pet oversees his progress. Her concerned expression conveys her absolute belief that her keeper requires her supervision—else he’ll starve.

A male approaches, another one I recognize from innumerable lenticular prints, and he catches Pet up in a hold that would almost appear aggressive if she wasn’t smiling so hugely the moment his brawny arms wrap around her. His strength is impressive for his age, just another wonder that sets the doctor’s tenders apart: they are incredibly healthy and fit.

Dr. XAN’KT-TY`్ grins at his overfull plate and murmurs to the male, “Thank you for getting control of her.” When Pet gasps and laughs, Dr. Xan’-Tay`్ sends her a playful wave before he holds up his next stalk of wiqsaiia. “I’ll finish, Pet. Go on.”

[They take their leave.]

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Sharing a stalk of food with the tender male at his feet.] “Back to your question. If I’d had my choice, we’d have left with the pair of albino males that were for sale.”

[We both take a moment to moan in disappointment.]

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “Instead, the females essentially turned their nose up at every stud who approached the fence. I thought we were going to run out of tender farms to visit.”

INTERVIEWER: “What, in your opinion, led them to eventually select the males they did?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Brows rising.] “I’ll never know. To be honest, the first chosen male seemed rather unremarkable to me.” [An apologetic smile is sent over his shoulder to a female tender who is kneeling on a large pillow, a male of average tender height resting behind her, his arms wrapped over her shoulders.] “I’ve since learned he’s anything but. It’s led me to determine that I have no ability whatsoever to so much as guess at what traits tenders find attractive. That’s why I insist that keepers let the female decide.”

[A young male tender creeps past us, glancing at us furtively before sidling up to a potted plant. Dr. XAN’KT-TY`్ claps his hands together loudly and utters a firm, “No. You don’t mark the indoor plant. Only outdoor plants.” Then Dr. Xan’-Tay`్ turns to me and sighs. “You see environment enrichment? Male tenders see targets.”]

INTERVIEWER: “I take it the second male wasn’t one you’d have picked out either?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “Truthfully, I never even noticed him. Aiko kept pointing into the pen, growing more distressed because I couldn’t tell which one she was motioning for. Turns out, the male she was seeing was tucked between boulders, doing his best to hide himself because he was injured.”

INTERVIEWER: “How did you react when she chose an injured specimen?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Looking confused by my question.] “She wanted him; I bought him. [Features softening into a grin.] I was especially enthusiastic later when I examined him and found him to be an Odd-Eye.”

INTERVIEWER: “Ohhh, I’ve heard rumors about this stud’s purchase! Is it true the twins’ fathers had to rescue Aiko that day?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “Not quite that dramatic. I’d never have let her into a pen full of males. But when I stepped into the enclosure to retrieve the male she wanted, the other tenders became desperate to be chosen. The studlot owner had their stunner controllers at hand, but Aiko’s sire and father were even faster. They shoved into the pen behind me, taught the other males manners, and we retrieved the stud Aiko had picked.”

INTERVIEWER: “And he made a full recovery from his injuries?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Gesturing to his left.] “They’ve produced eight offspring in four years. I’d say he’s doing very well.”

INTERVIEWER: [Chuckling.] “I would agree! And twins each litter! You must be so pleased.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Passing a hand over his face and shuddering.] “It’s not as pleasant a notion during gestation and delivery, but yes, once everyone is safe, it’s a celebration.”

INTERVIEWER: “And Aiko’s twin? Does she produce twins also?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “One set. The rest of Kee-va’s were single births. Her daughter though,” [he turns and beckons a pair forward, each tender holding an infant] “has had two sets of twins so far.”

INTERVIEWER: “Will there be a chance for more offspring from the second-gen tenders, or did you place both Kee-va and Aiko on the hormone blockers?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “They’re on hormone blockers. They’ve given me many wonderful tenders; they’ve earned rest for the rest of their daycycles.”

INTERVIEWER: “Ah. One last topic before we close out the interview.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “All right.”

INTERVIEWER: “It’s interesting that you teach your tenders how to spar—”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “No, no. That’s not accurate.”

INTERVIEWER: “It’s not?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “No. I don’t teach the tenders to spar; they teach each other to spar.”

INTERVIEWER: “Really!”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “Indeed. It alarmed me, the first time I saw males partaking in—what appeared to me—to be fighting. But their movements were so deliberate, and they were so devoid of aggression, I checked my instinct to intervene and observed them instead.”

INTERVIEWER: “And you found they were playing?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “Some play, certainly; but no, the first time I observed the occurrence—the, what I believe is a natural occurrence—it was between my first set of mature tender males, and—”

INTERVIEWER: “Your Beastly and Prime?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Laughs.] “Yes. It seems they’re rather well known everywhere.”

INTERVIEWER: “They are! They’re famous across the galaxy. I was on assignment in the Pah*lyt-vhyonga quadrant, and spied Prime and Beastly’s images wrapped around liquid canisters. You can hydrate out of canisters with your tenders on them.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Laughs again.] “That’s interesting. I might have to purchase those now.” [Glances to the tenders being discussed, who are watching us, their lips stretched into curves of amusement.] “Whenever I take them out, crowds call their name and wave, and want to render lenticular captures with them. Thank trinary stars they handle the attention so well.”

INTERVIEWER: “I didn’t mean to distract from the question. You were saying that you decided to allow your males to fight.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “Spar. Not fight. It’s an important distinction.”

INTERVIEWER: “Ah. Of course. Apologies.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Waving hand in a forgiving, dismissive gesture.] “As I said, it’s easy to mistake, but the males were engaging in a non-violent form of practice-fighting. And I realized they were building on necessary skills.”

INTERVIEWER: “Necessary?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “Absolutely. I’ve unfortunately had the opportunity to see this proved several times over the spans, and because of that, I believe it’s imperative that males be allowed to partake in controlled, supervised sparring sessions.”

INTERVIEWER: “You believe it provides a tool to protect their females.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Smiling.] “You’ve read my latest study!”

INTERVIEWER: “I skimmed as much of it as I could on the way here. It was fascinating. Summarize for those of us who haven’t had a chance to delve into this new area of your work yet.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “Well I wouldn’t say it’s an ‘area’ of my work, merely an aspect I felt compelled to report on, but yes, I know for a fact—as do most all tender keepers—that males who are equipped with the skills to protect their female make for a well-adjusted male and female. Less anxious, less stressed. Of course, it’s the keepers’ job to limit the pair’s exposure to circumstances that could set up for a combative event. Ideally, it will never happen—but it happens. [Reaches out to Beastly, who raises his chin and accepts an affectionate-looking scratch along his scarred jaw.] “Male tenders defend and protect. It’s what they do. They grow unspeakably anxious if they can’t.”

INTERVIEWER: “How intriguing that you say that, because I read an article that claimed you were encouraging female sparring too?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Briefly patting Pet on the head.] “I don’t discourage females from learning to protect themselves or their young or their charges from threats, and when I observed males accepting female trainees during sparring sessions, I didn’t stand in their way. They should be allowed to pass on their skills.”

INTERVIEWER: “That’s wonderful, actually.”

And that, readers, is where the interview essentially ended, because Pet, who had risen and left, suddenly returned, her mate following her as if bonded by a physical chain, and she was carrying two young tenders. She motioned to me, and made some indication to the doctor, who inclined his head, and somehow, I ended up with an armful of the most adorable tenders I’ve ever seen. Readers, I’m in love. And I lost all ability to remain professional as I cuddled the young and gushed to the doctor about my interest in obtaining tenders from his program.

INTERVIEWER: “These two are perfection! I want to take them home with me.”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్ [Grinning with pride.] “So did the emperor.”

INTERVIEWER: [Gasping at the prestige of it.] “How fabulous! [Noting their vast physical differences.] “They look to be about the same age, but they’re not related, are they?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: “They are not. It’s very interesting; they were birthed on the same day, and have been drawn to each other ever since. The only way they stay quiet is if they’re holding onto each other. It’s forced two pairs to essentially raise offspring together. Very interesting.”

INTERVIEWER: “Indeed! Is it too early to tell if they’ll choose each other when they reach selection age?” [One of the young bounces forward and land against my arm, slobbering on me. It’s beyond charming, somehow.] “Oh, I want them. If the female here does choose this male later, can I please, please be put on the list for this pair specifically?”

DR. XAN’-TAY`్: [Glancing down at Pet, who’s resting against his knee. She looks back at him, and smiles.] “This female is so mischievous.” [Giving me a rueful look.] “She’s been bringing this pair out to everyone who visits, if she approves of them.”

INTERVIEWER: [Looking right at Pet.] “I’m honored. Thank you.”

[With impressive grace, Pet tosses me a winning smile. Then she rises and takes back the pair of young, presumably returning them to their parental units.]

Readers, that’s when I bow to Dr. Xan’-Tay`్, thank him for his time, and bid him and his tenders a good daycycle. Before I left, I filled out the request form to apply for one of the Doctor’s coveted apprenticeship slots in his tender rearing program. I wasn’t joking when I said I was in love with the set of paired tender youths. They’re darling and some daycycle, I hope they’ll be mine.

Wish me luck, readers!

AUTHOR NOTE

Oh my land, THANK YOU, *thank you* for taking a wild crazy chance and grabbing this story! *Brings you in for a slow-motion Squeeze Hug* :D

I have so much crazy trivia to throw at you.

The Pet Project latched onto me while I was trying to write Contaminated. I mean, this thing hit me like a facehugger. It was a wild time, with Contagion happening before I could even finish its predecessor (Because Simmi. I loved Simmi.). I tried to kick Pet Project off to the side, but it actually became this fun little side game, where I could play with the idea of what could go wrong if humans came under the rule of sentient beings… who didn’t recognize full sentience in us. This notion came about because--actually, I’ll save that for the trivia page. Swipe on if you want trivia! =D

What did you think of this one? A bit of a departure from my other stories, (behind the scenes, author friends are both wonderful and terrifying as they gently ask if I’ve lost my mind *“Ha!” emoji with bead of sweat trickling off forehead goes here*) but I really hope it was an enjoyable way to pass the time for you. Early reader feedback was interesting with a lot of great questions, and I’ve added the biggest one below in case you’re curious. I know this story is different. I know people are giving it the side-eye because they aren’t sure what they’ll be jumping into. If you take the time to leave a review to let others know if they should grab it: Thank You!♥!♥!

*OTTERSMOOCHES* to you! (It’s now a thing. Look out for “Water Squeaker Pups” too, i.e. otter babies. This is my new favorite term.)

*SMOOCHES FROM A POOL FULL OF WATER SQUEAKER PUPS*

Amanda♥

https://www.facebook.com/AmandaMiloAuthor/

FUN BOOK TRIVIA THAT YOU WILL PROBABLY NEVER USE IN YOUR DAILY LIFE

I was absolutely thinking of rats while working on this story. (There’s even an odd-eye phenotype in rats that I borrowed from. If you want to kill a chunk of your day looking up odd-eye everything, do not miss searching for odd-eye cats. And people. And deer. And horses. And dogs. Beautiful.) (Also see heterochromia and Henry Cavill. Did you notice his eyes before now? I did not, because all this time, it turns out his eye-level was not where I was staring!) Back to the original subject: Why rats? Because when you’re raising people or rats in captivity, turns out there’s not a whole lot of difference.

(You know--in theory. We’re not keeping people in our basement laboratory for my book research or anything. That would never work. Our dogs would insist we make those captive people play with them, and frankly, if I had to clean up after captives, I’d feel like they owed some tennis time to the dogs for us providing all the food and board... Hold the phone. If we had a captive or two to play with the dogs (is this why couples have children?) perhaps I’d get more writing done. Especially if the captives could be motivated to care for themselves. Hmm, I’m suddenly warming to this idea. What? Why are you looking at me like that?)

Anyway, the drive-by tidbit: pet rats (called fancy rats) and laboratory rats originated from wild-caught stock--but with selective breeding, they’ve undergone psychological and physiological changes that have altered them into becoming a different sort of animal. No longer Rattus norvegicus, they earned the scientific classification of Rattus norvegicus domestica. The difference between a wild brown rat and a fancy rat is pretty astounding when you see them (or attempt to handle or interact with them) side by side. In this story, humans are in the somewhat early stage of being captively bred for the purpose of companion curiosities/pets. It was a fun concept to play with. If it turns out that you like this story, I’ve expanded on this premise! =D (If you did not enjoy this story, then forget I said anything!)

NEXT UP FOR THE TRIVIA BITE: Ohmystars, you gotta see the inspiry for Beastly and Prime. RAWR. Irish model Gwilym Pugh’s rough-hewn alpha male headshot taken by photographer Edo Brugué (it’s the pic way down on the bottom, the ‘scarred’ face shown in this article: https://bit.ly/2YNCsSZ) was the inspiry for Beastly.

Model Kevin Kreider was the inspiry for Prime. Specifically, this image of him wearing nothing but his underwear: https://bit.ly/34n0NA8 (Recently, I did see him in a shirt, and it turns out he looks fiiiine in that too. You know. If you approve of that kind of thing, men wearing clothing. Harder to objectify them sometimes but not impossible if one is determined. Fight the good fight!)

The inspiry behind Ux-47 is probably *the nicest guy in real life,* so I’d feel bad waving his name/picture around. Feel free to insert your most heinous ex-boyfriend/lover/husband/boss or handy evil-creeper-neighbor while imagining this character.

The inspiry for Aiko (Prime and Pet’s daughter): search Baby Chanko and just LOOK AT THAT HAIR! She has a MANE. Such a sweet face too. What a little cutie!!! https://bit.ly/34oa3nE and https://bit.ly/38BtVXO. The name Aiko means beloved one.

Caoimhe is Gaelic for beautiful. It is pronounced Kee-va (Aiko’s twin half-sister).

READER QUESTION FOR PET PROJECT:

Question: Why did the babies from artificial wombs die?

Answer: This concept was borrowed from the infamous Harlow monkey studies and a couple purported orphanage experiments. You may have already learned about these, but if not, if you’re curious, read on. (WARNING: If you do NOT want to read something that could potentially sadden you, just walk away knowing that the intrinsic thing the babies were missing in this book’s scene was simply love.)

Onto the inspiry: there are a myriad of sources claiming that touch deprivation and isolation experiments were carried out on human children in an orphanage in 1944 and the babies died. Is it true? Save for one Psychology Today article that referenced it (and claimed the babies died, but referenced no specific study data), I didn’t find a trusted source with detailed information, so let’s set that aside. There is most definitely documented research that was done on monkeys by Doctor Harry Harlow that, if your junior high, high school, college Science/Psychology classes didn’t show you the videos of sad, sad baby monkeys and the ‘rape rack’ used to get them, well—your daycycle will not get sunnier if you delve into them today.

[FOREST GUMP QUOTE: “And that’s all I have to say about that…”]

There was also affection deprivation research done on rats, and in those cases, if the infants didn’t receive touch, they didn’t grow. Homosapiens’ biology is a little different (infant rodents must be stimulated in order to eliminate) but it’s safe to say human babies need more hands-on interaction than diaper changes. For this story, touch deprivation caused complete failure to thrive in the study’s infants, with ‘affection as a crucial need’ being a concept that the cerebral Cryptop aliens didn’t have the frame of reference to factor into their equations.

Some Cures for A Book Hangover

If you’re looking for a sweet read, I enjoyed Royally Yours, by Emma Chase. Ebook: https://amzn.to/34k9TxQ (I listened to the audiobook narrated by the amazing Shane East and Andi Arndt: https://amzn.to/2Eu2cL3)

In the Unlikely Event by L.J. Shen. Ebook: https://amzn.to/2qT5t3h. This is not a romantic comedy, but L.J. Shen can craft a sentence with enough sharp humor that you laugh out loud. If you’re looking for angst and fate and destined enemy-to-lovers, this’ll be your thing. The Audiobook was narrated by a slew of great voices, but I’ll tell you right now, I’m all for Joe Arden and Shane East: https://amzn.to/2PPH5rw

Another sweet read if you’re in the mood. A Negotiated Marriage by Noelle Adams: https://amzn.to/2LPCULl

A BDSM genre novella--sweet. Simon Says: Mine by Cherise Sinclair: https://amzn.to/36GATct

I haven’t read this one, but it’s on my ereader, waiting: Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood World) by J.R. Ward Ebook: https://amzn.to/36B5O9T Audiobook: https://amzn.to/2PIAKOE

I ONE-CLICKED THIS PUPPY THE MOMENT IT WENT ON PRE-ORDER: Best Friends (New Species Book 15) by Laurann Dohner: https://amzn.to/2Eeqb0z. We’re doing the family rounds this month so slipping off to read could prove tricky--but you bet that I’m going to try. If this is you too, GOOD LUCK! :D

Books & Audiobooks by Amanda…

Want to check out what else I’ve written? YOU ARE AWESOMENESS PERSONIFIED ♥. *Heart Eyes*

Arokh and Angie’s story ebook: https://amzn.to/2A6sH9T

This book is also available in Audio, narrated by the talented Nick Cracknell: https://adbl.co/2N7WXHF

Zadeon and Callie’s story ebook: http://amzn.to/2EZEitg

Audiobook voiced by Nick Cracknell: https://adbl.co/2Nx8WxR

(WARNING: This one has some Dark times. This couple’s love is beautiful though, and they get their Happily Ever After.)

Brax, Tara, and Tac’Mot’s story is here: http://amzn.to/2FeuFGl

Audiobook narrated by Teddy Hamilton and Callie Dalton: https://amzn.to/2zUkHWu

(If you had to classify this one, it’s almost Reverse Harem. This is an MFM book, which means there are two (alien) guys and one woman but it’s not *quite* menage, because Brax is a Rakhii, and you know this means he doesn’t share his female. Slight problem: his female is bonded to Tac’Mot.)

Dohrein and Gracie’s story: https://amzn.to/2Qn4lwo

Audiobook voiced by Nick Cracknell: https://adbl.co/2s6gN96

Blind Fall, the standalone story that answers the question you’ve all been asking me: “Is the guide dog okay?”

Spoiler: She’s MORE than okay. ♥ This is Breslin and Sanna’s story. If you read this one, I hope you have fun.

https://amzn.to/2PvoaAm

Audiobook narrated by Teddy Hamilton and Callie Dalton: https://amzn.to/2WImX17

Beth’s Stable, a reverse harem romance for movie-lovers. Just trust me. ;)

https://amzn.to/2ZFxyLx

A fun side project *Not* related to the Stolen series:

Valos of Sonhadra Series

Alluvial, Book 1: https://amzn.to/2OhfX33

Tempest, Book 2, written by Poppy Rhys: https://amzn.to/2uPfihv

Galvanizing Sol, Book 3, by Amanda Milo & Poppy Rhys: https://amzn.to/2AgxDZE

Another side project:

Contaminated, a Cosmic Fairy Tale https://amzn.to/36RFbhS

(Erreck and Nancy’s story, which features Simmi as a lovably gruff secondary character.)

Contagion: Simmi’s standalone, germphobic HEA story https://amzn.to/2ElEVuk

And a random coloring book that I drew for fun: https://amzn.to/2MSk3Pu

About the Author

Amanda Milo is a collector of the randomest trivia. Did you know that Kiwi fruit plants have separate genders? You need both in order to make Kiwi fruits happen. Isn’t that cool??

She’s concerned about river otter bite pressure—she hasn’t had a chance to test this out, but frankly, this is the part that’s holding her back from appropriating and testing the relocation (aka wildlife theft) of a small family of adorable river otters.

...To the bathtub. (They’re basically like slick-furred rubber duckies, but with lots of teeth, right? Right.)

Extended contemplation of this plan has led to the permission to adopt more ferrets, which makes her very happy. So does her extensive, wacky-patterned, thigh-high sock collection—though ferrets, it must be noted, do not play well with pretty socks. The crazy, clawed thieves!

She invites you to hang out with her in the Amanda Milo’s Minions Facebook group. (She didn’t name the group! XD Readers have great senses of humor!)

Thank you for picking up this book. Amanda hopes that you had a lovely time. ♥