Chapter 42

WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT—READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

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The garage doors rattled open just before sunrise, revealing rows of steel milking stations polished to a dull gleam. No cattle stood waiting—only silence, and the faint scent of antiseptic lingering from last night’s hosing down. Beyond the barn, the farm sprawled under a low southwestern haze, fences stretching farther than most neighbors ever saw. Old Man Harker called it luck, the way his land kept turning profits even when others’ crops withered. He’d wink if you asked, tap the side of his nose like there was some secret tucked between the Upanishads he pretended to read on the porch. The first shift always came in drowsy and docile, blinking against the garage fluorescents as they lined up at their assigned stations. Harker watched from the catwalk, fingers drumming against the railing as the overhead sprinklers kicked on—warm water, just enough to clean the udders without startling them. One of the younger girls flinched anyway, her bare shoulders tensing under the spray. “Easy now,” murmured Harker, though he knew she couldn’t hear him through the glass. He’d learned early that the best product came from calm livestock. Down below, the handlers moved with practiced efficiency, attaching suction cups while the girls leaned into the restraints, their breathing already slowing into the rhythm of the machines. The morning’s first batch would be bottled and labeled by noon, those elegant glass bottles with their embossed lettering—*Pure Human Grade, Hormone-Free*—selling out before they even hit the shelves in the city. The rhythmic hum of the milking machines synced with the rise of the sun, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Harker’s boots clicked against the metal stairs as he descended, his ledger tucked under one arm. He paused by Station Four, where a handler was adjusting the suction levels on a dark-haired woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty. Her eyelids fluttered halfway shut, lips parted just enough to reveal the smooth, rounded edges of teeth filed down years ago. “Good yield?” Harker asked, though he already knew the answer—her chart was pristine, lactation steady as a metronome. “Best of the lot,” the handler said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Took nearly three liters already.” Harker nodded, making a note in his ledger. The girl’s hips bore faint, silvery stretch marks from last year’s breeding cycle, but her udders were taut and full. He reached out, thumb brushing over one nipple to check the valve seal. She didn’t react. They never did after the first few weeks. The ledger snapped shut as Harker stepped back, his gaze drifting toward the far end of the barn where the newer arrivals were kept—still skittish, still prone to flinching at sudden movements. One of them, a redhead with freckles dusting her shoulders, had been resisting the handlers all week. She wasn’t broken in yet, but she would be. They always were. A sharp electronic chime signaled the end of the first milking cycle. The machines whirred to a stop, releasing suction with a soft hiss. The girls remained in place, swaying slightly as handlers moved down the line, detaching tubes and wiping down oversensitive skin with diluted aloe solution. The redhead jerked her head away when a handler reached for her, earning a swift, practiced slap to the thigh—not enough to bruise, just enough to remind her. Harker sighed. “Put her on the night shift,” he muttered to the nearest supervisor. “Let the darkness soften her up.” The redhead’s breath hitched as two handlers unhooked her restraints, her freckled skin flushing where the suction cups had left faint pink rings. She tried to twist away again, but they gripped her elbows with the same bored efficiency they’d use to reposition a stubborn hose. “Night shift,” one muttered to the other, and her shoulders stiffened—she’d heard the stories about the dark barn, the way the newer girls came back glassy-eyed and pliant by dawn. Harker was already striding toward the breeding pens when his foreman intercepted him, clipboard outstretched. “Got the vet’s report on the new sire,” the man said, tapping a line item with his pen. “Sperm count’s higher than we’ve seen in months. If we time the inseminations right—” Harker took the clipboard without breaking stride, his eyes scanning the vet’s notes as they walked. “Good. Schedule the redhead for him first—she’s got strong hips, good bloodlines.” He handed it back just as they reached the breeding pens, where the new sire stood in the center of a reinforced stall, his broad shoulders glistening under the heat lamps. The man—no, the *bull*, Harker corrected himself—had the kind of raw, animal vitality that made handlers double-check the locks. His dark eyes tracked their movement with a sharpness the milkers had long since lost. The foreman cleared his throat. “There’s… another thing.” He lowered his voice. “County inspector’s making rounds next week. Got word from the feed store.” Harker’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the clipboard before he forced them to relax. He exhaled through his nose—long, slow—then flashed the foreman a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Well then. Guess we’ll be having a *spring cleaning*.” The foreman nodded, already reaching for his radio. Behind them, the new sire shifted in his stall, the chains around his wrists clinking softly. He was watching them now with an intensity that prickled the hairs on Harker’s neck. Not fear—Harker didn’t do fear—just the old man’s instinct for trouble. “Double the sedative in his evening feed,” Harker muttered, jerking his chin toward the stall. “And move up the redhead’s insemination. Tonight.” The redhead’s insemination took place under the watchful glow of infrared cameras, her body strapped to the angled table with reinforced leather cuffs. Harker observed from the observation booth, sipping lukewarm coffee as the vet administered the fertility cocktail. The girl’s freckles stood out like constellations against her pale skin, her chest rising too fast—still afraid, then. Good. Fear kept the cortisol levels interesting. Down in the stall, the new sire paced like something caged, which of course he was. The handlers had dosed him just enough to keep him compliant but not sluggish, his pupils dilated under the barn’s artificial moonlight. When they led him to the breeding mount, he hesitated—just a fraction—before climbing onto the platform. Smart. Too smart. Harker made a note to review the sourcing paperwork again. The vet’s syringe glinted under the sterile lights as he pressed the plunger, the cocktail of hormones and muscle relaxants sliding into the redhead’s thigh. She whimpered—a small, broken sound—but the straps held her fast. Harker watched her fingers twitch against the padded restraints, her knuckles whitening before the drugs took full effect. Within minutes, her breathing evened out, her pupils dilating to match the sire’s. “Perfect synchronization,” the vet murmured, adjusting the IV drip. Outside the breeding stall, the handlers prepped the sire with practiced efficiency, swabbing him down with antiseptic before guiding him onto the platform. The redhead’s head lolled to one side as they positioned her beneath him, her freckled skin flushed pink under the heat lamps. Harker’s coffee had gone cold, but he barely noticed; his attention was fixed on the way the sire’s nostrils flared when he caught her scent—something primal flashing behind those dark eyes before the drugs smoothed it over. The sire’s muscles tensed as the handlers guided him into position, his breath hot against the redhead’s neck. For a heartbeat, his body resisted—a tremor running through his shoulders—before the sedatives won out and he pressed forward with mechanical precision. Harker leaned closer to the observation glass, noting the exact moment the redhead’s eyelids fluttered shut, her lips parting in a soundless gasp. The vet tapped his tablet, logging the timestamp with clinical detachment. “Optimal alignment,” he muttered, adjusting a dial on the IV stand. Down in the stall, the handlers stepped back, their gloves streaked with antiseptic gel. One of them—a new hire judging by the way his Adam’s apple bobbed—kept glancing at the redhead’s face, then away, as if he’d been trained to look everywhere but. Harker filed that away for later. Weak links had no place on his payroll. The sire’s hips jerked forward in a staccato rhythm, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts that fogged the observation glass. Harker tapped his fingers against his coffee cup, watching the redhead’s toes curl involuntarily against the footrest. The vet adjusted a dial on the IV stand, increasing the flow of uterine relaxants. “Cervical dilation optimal,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the biometric screen. A sudden tremor ran through the sire’s shoulders—too much resistance left in him, even with the sedatives. One of the handlers moved to steady him, but Harker raised a hand. “Let him fight it,” he said, leaning closer to the glass. The sire’s teeth were bared now, veins standing out along his neck as he strained against the drugs. Interesting. Most broke within the first breeding cycle, but this one still had enough instinct left to make the process messy. The redhead’s body arched suddenly against the restraints, her freckled skin glistening under the heat lamps as the sire’s thrusts grew erratic. Harker’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup—not concern, just the old habit of calculating variables. The vet’s pen scratched across his clipboard, unfazed. “Adrenaline spike,” he noted. “We’ll need to adjust her post-insemination sedation.” A metallic groan echoed through the stall as the sire’s chains strained against their bolts. One handler stepped forward with a syringe, but Harker shook his head. “Wait.” He wanted to see how far the man would push against the drugs, that animal part of him still clawing at the surface. The redhead’s breath came in shallow gasps now, her pupils blown wide as the hormones flooded her system. The sire’s chains snapped taut as he reared back, his shoulder muscles bunching like coiled rope beneath sweat-slick skin. For one suspended moment, Harker thought the bolts might give—then the man collapsed forward onto the redhead with a grunt, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. The handlers moved in before Harker could blink, syringes flashing as they administered the knockout dose. The sire’s eyelids fluttered once, twice, before his weight settled fully onto the breeding mount. “Clean extraction,” the vet announced, already palpating the redhead’s abdomen through her stretched skin. He nodded to an assistant who began unhooking the IV lines with robotic precision. “Implantation confirmed. Get her to recovery and double the progesterone supplements—this one’s got a history of early rejections.” Harker watched the handlers wheel the redhead away on the gurney, her freckled stomach already glistening with the antiseptic gel they’d slathered over the implantation site. The sire’s limp form followed on a separate cart, his wrists still cuffed to the rails—protocol, even unconscious. The new hire lingered by the stall door, staring at the smear of blood on the breeding mount’s padding. “First time?” Harker asked, clapping a hand on the kid’s shoulder. The boy jumped like he’d been branded. Up in the observation booth, the vet was packing away his instruments with the quiet efficiency of a man who’d done this a thousand times. Harker joined him, flipping through the redhead’s updated chart. “Early rejections, you said?” He tapped the line about her progesterone levels. “Thought we fixed that with the last hormone adjustment.” The vet didn’t look up from his case, snapping latex gloves off with a practiced flick. “We did. But look at her cortisol levels during the procedure—spiked higher than any other breeding subject this quarter.” He tapped the tablet screen, pulling up a jagged red graph that made Harker’s eyebrows twitch. “Something about that particular sire sets her off. Might be pheromonal.” Harker grunted, tossing the chart onto the stainless steel counter. It slid into a tray of used syringes with a clatter. “Then we’ll rotate her to a different stud next cycle. No use risking another miscarriage.” He glanced at the security monitor where two handlers were hosing down the breeding stall, the pink-tinged water swirling toward the drain. The new hire still stood there, shoulders hunched like he’d been gut-punched. The sire’s limp body twitched on the gurney as they wheeled him toward the recovery pens, his fingers curling reflexively against the restraints. Harker watched the tremor with narrowed eyes—too much fight left in this one. He’d need heavier sedatives, maybe even a hormone suppressant if they wanted to keep him docile for the next breeding cycle. The vet followed the procession, tapping notes into his tablet without looking up. “Adrenaline levels still elevated post-procedure,” he muttered. “Recommend doubling the tranquilizer dosage for 48 hours.” Harker nodded absently, his attention snagging on the new hire lingering by the stall door. The kid’s face had gone ashen, his knuckles white around the mop handle. “You,” Harker called, snapping his fingers. The boy jerked like he’d been electrocuted. “Get that blood cleaned up before it stains the padding. And for Christ’s sake, breathe—you look like you’re about to pass out.”

[Butcher’s Station]

The cleaver came down with a wet thunk, severing spinal cartilage with the same practiced ease as splitting firewood. Overhead, industrial fans churned the scent of copper and ammonia through the butchery, their blades casting strobe-like shadows across the concrete floor where the morning’s culls hung from stainless steel hooks. Harker ran a gloved thumb along the rib cage of specimen #447, feeling for the telltale soft spots that indicated proper marbling. “Grade A,” he muttered to the butcher, who nodded and made the corresponding mark on the clipboard. At the far end of the processing line, a new batch of males shuffled in from the holding pens—barefoot and docile, their torsos already marked with blue spray-paint circles indicating optimal slaughter weight. One of them, a broad-shouldered brunette with the remnants of a farmer’s tan, kept glancing at the overhead conveyor where sides of meat swung like grotesque pendulums. “Eyes forward,” barked a handler, jabbing the man’s kidney with a cattle prod. The brunette stumbled but didn’t cry out—they never did after the second culling season. His file would show three years of selective breeding for pain tolerance before he’d been moved to the protein line. The butcher’s saw whined to life as Harker moved down the row, inspecting each carcass with the detached precision of a gemologist appraising stones. He paused at #449, where the fat distribution formed an almost artistic gradient between flank and loin. “Reserve this one for the private clients,” he told the packaging foreman. “The French ambassador prefers his cuts with this marbling pattern.” The foreman tagged the carcass with a gold clip—their system for designating premium inventory. 

[Back At The Breeding Stalls]

The French ambassador’s order was still ringing in the packaging foreman’s ears when the sire from Breeding Stall Six began convulsing in recovery. Harker’s radio crackled to life mid-inspection—a handler’s panicked voice reporting muscle spasms strong enough to snap the gurney straps. By the time Harker reached the medical wing, the vet had already administered enough tranquilizers to drop a draft horse, but the man’s pupils remained pinpricks of black in a sea of bloodshot white. “Adrenaline overload,” the vet muttered, adjusting the IV drip with hands that betrayed only the slightest tremor. “His system shouldn’t be metabolizing the sedatives this fast.” Harker studied the twitching muscle along the sire’s jaw—a rhythmic pulse like a second heartbeat. “What’s his sourcing code again?” The vet scrolled through his tablet, fingers pausing on the sire’s intake records. “Batch 9-Kilo,” he said. “Same as the others from that northern compound.” Harker’s jaw tightened—he’d known the moment he saw the man’s file there’d be complications. The 9-Kilo stock were bred for endurance, their adrenal systems jacked up to survive subzero work camps. Perfect for labor, problematic for breeding. A gurgling sound came from the gurney as the sire’s back arched off the padding, tendons standing out like cables under his skin. The vet swore and reached for another syringe. “If we can’t stabilize him—” The sire’s body seized one final time—a violent, arching spasm that lifted his torso clear off the gurney before he collapsed back onto the sweat-slicked padding. The vet’s syringe hovered uselessly in the air as the heart monitor flatlined with a monotonous drone. Harker watched the man’s fingers uncurl slowly, the tension bleeding out of them like air from a punctured tire. “Damn,” the vet muttered, tossing the unused sedative into the sharps bin with more force than necessary. He peeled off his gloves with a snap, eyeing the biometric screens as they flickered into standby mode. “Adrenal cortex must’ve been hyperactive. Never seen a system burn through that much tranq before.” Harker exhaled through his nose—long, slow—before reaching for the corpse’s clipboard. The sire’s ink-stained thumbprint smudged the corner of the intake form, a detail most wouldn’t notice. But Harker did. He always did. “Prep him for rendering,” he said, tossing the file onto the gurney. “No sense wasting good protein.” The vet hesitated, his gaze darting to the biometric screens now dark with static. “The redhead’s already implanted with his—” Harker didn’t look up from adjusting his gloves. “Then monitor her closer than the others. Double the progesterone, halve the cortisol suppressants.” He snapped the latex tight around his wrists. “If she miscarries, we’ll know it’s the stock.” The vet’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he glanced toward the recovery ward where the redhead lay unconscious, IVs pumping her full of uterine relaxants. “And if she doesn’t?” The vet’s question hung in the air like the scent of iodine from the autopsy trays. Harker peeled off his gloves with a slow, deliberate motion, watching the latex snap against his wrist. “Then we’ve got ourselves a new bloodline,” he said, nodding toward the corpse as two orderlies wheeled it toward the rendering chute. The sire’s limp arm swayed with the gurney’s movement, fingertips brushing the floor in a grotesque parody of reaching. Outside the med bay, the farm stretched under a midday sun that bleached the fences to bone-white. Harker crossed the yard with his head down, counting the seconds between sprinkler pulses—thirty-seven, right on schedule. The redhead would be waking soon, if the sedation estimates were correct. He’d need to check her vitals himself.

~

The vet’s pen had barely left the redhead’s chart when her eyelids began to flutter—too soon, far too soon. Harker watched from the doorway as her fingers twitched against the padded restraints, the IV lines swaying with the minute movement. The sedation should have held her for another two hours at least. “Adrenaline rebound,” the vet murmured, already reaching for the syringe tray. His fingers hovered over the vials before selecting one with a slightly thicker viscosity—something stronger, then. The redhead’s breath hitched as the needle pierced her thigh, her freckles standing out like brands against suddenly flushed skin. Harker noted the way her pupils dilated unevenly, the left slower to react than the right. Interesting.

[Weeks Later]

The ultrasound wand moved in slow circles over the redhead’s abdomen, the screen’s grayscale static resolving into a pulsing, bean-shaped shadow. Harker leaned in, close enough to smell the antiseptic gel, his reflection warping across the monitor’s curve. The vet’s gloved fingers adjusted the dials, zooming in until the flutter of a heartbeat became unmistakable—tiny, relentless, like a moth trapped behind glass. “Viable implantation,” the vet announced, tapping the screen with his stylus to mark the gestational sac’s dimensions. His voice carried the same inflection as a mechanic confirming an oil change. “Cardiac activity strong, progesterone levels holding steady at 22 nanograms.” The redhead’s fingers spasmed against the restraints as the ultrasound wand pressed deeper, her freckled skin rippling with involuntary tremors. Harker observed the way her pupils contracted—not just from the sedation, but something sharper, more present. “She’s coming around faster than expected,” he murmured, tapping the biometric screen where her cortisol levels spiked in jagged red peaks. The vet grunted, adjusting the IV drip’s flow rate with practiced flicks of his thumb. In the recovery ward’s adjacent bay, the sire’s empty gurney sat stripped of its sheets, the faint imprint of his body still visible on the vinyl padding. A janitor scrubbed at the base where one thrashing heel had left a scuff of blood and sweat. Harker’s gaze drifted to the security feed showing the rendering vats, their steam curling like ghostly fingers toward the ceiling. Batch 9-Kilo would make decent fertilizer, if nothing else.