by Cara Bristol
Like a collective Parseon sucked in its breath all at once, and a hush fell over the crowd as Dak strode to the tent. Omra skipped after him, her heart racing with excitement, despite the scrutiny and the ups and downs of an unnerving morning. She would get to see real Terrans! She’d never met an alien before. How would she communicate? She did not speak their language—save for a few words she wasn’t supposed to mention in public. What kind of commodities would they be selling?
They entered the tent, and she found it was divided into smaller stalls, much like the Market itself. An emporium within an emporium, containing strange foods sealed in transparent bags, metal items that appeared to be worn on the body, judging from the pictures, impractical uniforms sewn in colors not used on Parseon. Pottery. Glassware. Household implements. Recognizable, yet different. Other items, she had no idea what they were, or what they were used for. Unlike the main Market, the rows were mostly clear of shoppers, which was fine by Omra. The emptiness gave her a clear view of the Terrans manning their booths.
“Terrans!” She gawked in awe. Dak had told her their two races looked very similar, but that the Terrans were a smaller people, and that was true, she noted—but their bearing, their mannerisms, their dress—different. They smiled at the few customers who passed by their booths with no intention of purchasing anything. They smiled at her!
Dak met her gaze. “I thought you might enjoy this.” He swept his arm in a broad stroke. “This section of the Market is an experimental trade venture with Terra, the first time our allies have been permitted to sell their wares on Parseon soil. I need to speak to the overseer. Would you like to explore while I do?”
Her pulse raced. She nodded.
“Stay inside. You will be safe enough here. I will collect you when I am finished.” Dak signaled to an armed man standing by the door. She’d spotted him tailing them in the Market. He’d followed at a discreet distance on this day and others. His insignia revealed he was one of Alpha’s guards.
“She may go wherever she wishes inside the tent, but she is not allowed to leave.”
“Understood, Commander.” The man saluted.
Dak pivoted and disappeared into the crowd. Omra spun in a circle, uncertain where to begin.
She glanced at the guard. Dak distrusted her so much he had stationed a sentry to enforce her obedience. But the frisson of hurt that ran through her did not erase the tingle of electrified excitement. She was free to browse in the Terran bazaar. And she had coin! She clutched the drawstring bag to her chest.
She ricocheted down the center aisle, bouncing from one booth to another. She didn’t know how long Dak’s business would keep him, and she wanted to see as much as she could. With the Commander gone, the guard followed more closely, almost matching her step for step. For a time, she played a child’s game, straying left to make him go left, then veering to the right. She was tempted to hop on one foot to see if he’d do the same. But the novelty of toying with him soon palled under the thrall of so many spectacles and amazing displays.
Many booths employed both males and females, who worked with seemingly no differentiation in status. In some instances, the females seemed to be in charge, issuing orders while the males scrambled to obey. When Omra strayed close to a booth, the vendor would greet her, an oddity in itself for a female to be so addressed, but in accented Parseon, it contributed to the overall foreignness. She felt as if she’d been transported to Terra itself.
A display of sparkling insignia captured her attention. Rings and loops with oddly fashioned dangles crafted in metals she hadn’t seen before. Doubles of each one.
“Honor to the brave,” said the vendor, using the greeting of Parseon males. No corresponding salutation for females existed in the language.
Uncertain how to react, she mumbled the words back and ducked her head.
“Can I answer questions? Show you something?” the man asked. His hair fell to his shoulders, while other male vendors had had hair of varying lengths. Short, long, and everywhere in between. Were there no standards on Terra? Alphas wore their hair cropped short. Betas typically had longer hair, almost to the jawline. Not demanded by Protocol, but suggested. The only commonality in this vendor’s dress to the other Terrans was that his uniform shirt covered his entire chest and both shoulders, but the similarity ended there. They had no dress code either. One vendor had worn a long-sleeved blue shirt. Other Terrans had short sleeves. And the colors! Green, yellow, brown, red—even striped in multiple hues. So different from the Parseon regulation monochromatic dark gray for alphas, brown for betas, and tan for females.
She studied the insignia, paired into doubles. Did Terrans pierce both nipples? But how would one determine status if the entire chest was covered by their shirts? And there were so many different insignia laid out on the tray, surely they did not have that many levels of social status? “These are nipple rings?”
“Uh, no. These are earrings.”
His accent was so strange, she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Ear rings?” Omra clapped a hand to the side of her head. “You pierce your ears?” She gaped, aghast at the barbaric practice.
He smoothed his hair back from his face, and she stared at a small yellow metal ring in his left lobe.
She shifted her gaze from his face to the insignia and back again. “So why are all the ear rings in pairs? Is one a spare?”
The vendor smiled. “These are women’s earrings. Almost all women on Terra pierce their ears, and they do both. Many have multiple piercings.” He traced the outer shell of his ear with his finger. “Maybe one-half of men wear an earring, but typically only one. Some men do both, though.”
So there was some difference between the sexes on Terra. She frowned. But why would any man copy what a female did by piercing both his ears? Unless piercing did not define status.
“What is the purpose of ear piercing?”
“Self-adornment,” he answered. “To improve one’s appearance.”
Omra choked. How could piercing one’s ears enhance attractiveness? And what a frivolous pursuit anyway. Courage in battle mattered. Adherence to Protocol. Not beauty. She thanked the man for his time and moved on. She had no need for ear rings. She shook her head at the crazy Terran accoutrement.
But a thrill coursed through her. She’d spoken to an actual, real-life Terran! And it had been easy, even though she had to pay close attention to understand what he’d said due to the accent.
Emboldened by the experience, she approached other booths that caught her eye, but so impractical were the items, she saw little that inspired her to spend her newly acquired wealth. Their ewers, bowls, and other crockery were functional, but Dak had everything of that nature already, although she had to admit not quite as beautiful. One bowl decorated with flowers tempted, but in the end, pragmatism won out. She did not need a bowl, no matter how attractive it was.
Then she happened upon a fabric booth, manned, as it were, by a female. The fabrics in somber shades were far more suitable than anything she’d seen, but it was the dazzling female herself that lured her to the booth. She stood about Omra’s height, so they were eye to eye, but all similarity ended there. The vendoress’s hair was a frizz of bright pink. From a distance, her right arm had appeared purple. Up close, Omra discovered a spray of pink and blue flowers painted into her skin wound from shoulder to wrist. As the Terran female marched around the stall in boots similar to those worn by Parseon warriors, her short black skirt flounced against her thighs. A sleeveless thin lavender shirt covered both breasts in the typical Terran fashion, but its tightness revealed her nipples were unpierced. Not so her face. A ring perforated the septum of her nose, another her brow, and multiples through the auricles and lobes of her ears. Exactly like the vendor had described. She knew she was being rude, but Omra couldn’t help but stare.
“Hello!” The vendoress smiled. What was with these Terrans that they went around grinning for no good reason?
But Omra recognized the gre
eting for what it was and repeated it back as best she could. Even to her ears, it sounded like she’d said “rellow” instead of “hello,” but she’d learned the salutation was used with males and females, and though foreign, it felt more comfortable than honor to the brave.
“My name’s Terra,” the female said.
Omra frowned. “Like the planet?”
The vendoress laughed. “I guess it sounds like that, but Tara, my name, is spelled differently.”
Very confusing, Omra decided, but introduced herself. “I’m Omra.”
“Pleased to meet you, Omra,” Tara answered back. Her gaze glanced off Omra’s nipple insignia. “You are an alpha’s breeder?”
Omra raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Yes.”
Tara laughed. “I did my homework before I came. I studied Parseon Protocol.”
Apparently she had. The somber and subdued fabrics were much more in line with what would appeal to Parseon people. “Your wares are very suitable,” Omra said.
“Thank you,” Tara said. “Are you looking for anything in particular? Can I help you find something?”
Omra shook her head.
“Look around as much as you want. If I can answer any questions, let me know.”
“May I touch the textiles?” Omra eyed a bolt of shiny beige cloth.
“Certainly.”
She stroked the fabric. Her hand slid over the material the way one’s feet lost purchase on icy ground. The fabric even seemed cooler than the others. She trailed a swath of it over her arm. It flowed like water over her skin. It reminded her of Dak and their coupling, how their bodies moved against the other, how his erection slid inside her. The head of his manhood felt smooth like this fabric. Her sex—her pussy—the Terran word had never seemed more appropriate than it did now—pulsed.
“That’s called satin,” Tara explained.
“It is very soft, but I have no use for it.”
“Many Terran women use it for night clothes—gowns and robes.”
“Terrans wear different clothes when it gets dark?” Omra arched her eyebrows.
“Sometimes we dress up for special events at night, but I meant to sleep in.”
“I sleep without clothes,” Omra said.
Tara laughed. “I do too.”
Omra stepped around the small shop, touching the fabrics. So many kinds. Rough, smooth, heavy, light. She spied some in shades of tans and muted brown-greens that were mottled. So different from the other textiles, she had to ask, “Is there a reason why these are spotted?”
Tara nodded. “Those are camo—short for camouflage. When you wear them outdoors, you blend in with the topography so people cannot see you easily.” She moved to the stand of fabrics and fingered the tan bolt. “This one is for use in the desert, and that one”—she pointed to the brownish green—“is for the woods or fields, where there’s a lot of foliage. It started as a military thing a long time ago, but civilians wear camo now. I have a camo jacket.”
“Are you trying to escape detection?” Omra shifted her gaze to Tara’s pink hair.
Tara laughed again, and Omra giggled too. She liked this Terran female. She was so friendly, so at ease with herself. She reminded her somewhat of Anika. Omra sobered. She wondered if her friend was still at the BCF or if she’d been acquired by an alpha by now. She hoped she was doing well and had been purchased by someone as permissive and indulgent as the Commander, who only punished to correct behavior and not because he drew pleasure from causing pain.
Omra wished she had had camo in shades of gray stone during her confinement at the BCF. So many times she’d prayed to blend into the walls, to escape notice. But if she had, the Commander would not have seen her, purchased her, and she wouldn’t be standing in this Terran booth now.
On impulse, she decided how to spend her money. She would buy some fabric and sew a uniform for Dak. “Can you show me some dark gray?” she asked Tara.
“This way.” She gestured for her to follow and crossed the shop. Omra admired Tara’s confident stride. “Is it for you? Or somebody else?” Tara asked.
“I will make a shirt for the Commander,” she replied.
“Wait a minute, you mean Alpha?” Tara dropped her jaw. “Whoa! You landed yourself a big fish, girl!”
“Fish?” Omra wrinkled her nose. “I do not understand.”
“Just a Terran saying.” Tara beckoned. Her fingernails were painted—each one like a different stripe of a rainbow. “I have something you might like.” Her boots clomped on the floor as she moved to a counter. She extracted a bolt of solid near-black fabric from underneath. “Touch it.” Tara held it out, and Omra ran her hands over the fabric. Crisp, very similar to Dak’s uniform material.
“Feel,” Tara said and dumped the bolt into Omra’s arms.
Omra widened her eyes. “It weighs very little.” She hefted the fabric in her arms and noted it shimmered slightly.
“It’s expensive too.” Tara twisted her mouth ruefully. “The fabric is woven from a composite microfiber that…” The vendoress proceeded to tell her about the cloth and how to work with its special qualities, but even before she finished, Omra knew she would buy it.
“Can you deliver?” Omra asked when she paid for the fabric and needles forged from a Terran alloy. She did not want Dak to see the material until his shirt was finished.
“Sure can. The bazaar offers courier service.”
A couple of betas entered the shop, and Omra took her leave so Tara could deal with business. She wondered how the vendoress would fare with Parseon males unused to meeting females on an equal level. She bet Tara would work it to her advantage. The betas would leave with their purses considerably lightened. She weighed her drawstring bag in her palm. The way hers had been. Her assets had been reduced to two coins. No matter. It was worth it. She couldn’t wait to sew Dak’s shirt.
Parseons crowded the bazaar now that Dak’s presence had deemed entry acceptable. Many carried packages, while others appeared to be in negotiation with vendors, gesturing in the universal sign language of commerce.
She twisted around to locate Dak’s guard. He had waited for her outside the cloth shop. Now he trailed behind her again. Would he spoil her surprise by telling Alpha she had bought something?
“Watch out!” a female voice cried, but the warning came too late. Omra plowed into someone. Omra jerked around to face the person, an apology readied on her lips. “I am so sor—” The words froze in her throat, and she stared.
The other female gaped, equally stunned.
Omra found her voice. “Anika?”
“Omra!”
She threw her arms around her friend, and they hugged and jumped. They were causing a spectacle, but Omra didn’t care. The friend she thought she’d never see again stood before her.
“What are you doing here?” Omra asked after they’d moved out of the traffic.
“Well, Jergan is negotiating for some Terran daggers, and I decided to look around.”
“Jergan? The guard from the BCF?”
Anika nodded. “He purchased me.”
“B-but he’s beta!” For the first time, Omra noticed Anika’s insignia. She’d been claimed by a beta. And it was out there for all to see.
Anika’s face clouded. “That makes it difficult sometimes.” She scanned the crowd, then lowered her voice and leaned close. “There is an Enclave to the north, where Parseons have broken with Protocol. Things are…freer there. Jergan has been working a double shift at BCF, saving money, and we’ve been stockpiling supplies. Jergan plans for us to join the Enclave.”
Jergan’s plan worried Omra. “Freer how?”
“Males and females live in pairs. There is no alpha or beta, unless you consider females are like the betas.”
“But you would be a pariah!” Omra gasped. Yet Anika’s description of the Enclave hit close to home. Wasn’t the freedom Dak permitted her similar? Heresy! Dak was still Alpha. She could be a breeder, a beta or, or…a tree stump, and he wou
ld remain Alpha.
“When we left the Enclave. But within it, we would be free to be.”
Omra’s eyes filled with tears at the hardship her friend would encounter. “I cannot imagine such a life as that.”
“Can you not?” Anika’s eyes and mouth shifted downward. “I noticed the welts on your legs.”
Omra flushed with shame. “It’s not like that. Alpha treats me very well.” She wished she could share the information of the amazing things he did to her body, but natural reserve held her back. “I jeopardized our safety. He was right to punish me, so I would be more mindful. He has never abused his right,” she stated with conviction.
Anika did not look convinced, but she did not press further. “Will you come to Market next week?”
“Yes.” Whether Dak would consent to selling sweetcakes remained a big question, but they would still have to purchase food.
“I must find Jergan. Can we meet”—Anika gestured at the Terran bazaar—“next Saturday early in the morn before everyone arrives? The following week we leave for the Enclave.”
“Yes. I will come.” She would work out the details of how she would get here later. Maybe she could ask Dak if she could visit the bazaar again. He had showed it to her in the first place and seemed willing to indulge her curiosity.
They hugged, and with a heart weighted by concern, Omra watched Anika hurry away. To so blatantly eschew Protocol—Omra shook her head in dismay. Protocol was not a perfect system, but without it, how would a female survive? Once again shame flooded her at her lax behavior. The Commander’s punishment had been just and fair.
Omra wove through the packed emporium. She’d been occupied for quite a while and presumed Dak would have collected her by now. Either his business was taking much time, or he could not locate her among so many stalls and people. She had no wish to get in trouble again, so she planted herself near the entrance—the last place they had seen each other. Soon after, she spotted his head poking above the mass of people. His face was tight, and he’d furrowed his brows.
She waved to catch his attention. He shouldered through the throng, his tense frown vanishing under a neutral expression. “I was becoming alarmed I would not find you. More people have visited the bazaar than I expected.” He flicked his gaze to her hands, empty except for her thin coin purse. “You did not find anything you wished to purchase?”
