Secret Daughter for the Alien Warrior

Chapter 1

Tania

“What time is she coming?” We all know the answer, yet the question rings around the room, over and over again. Each time I hear the words, my ears prick anew with hope and worry, and all the emotions that fall in between. 

“What time is the lottery? When will she choose?”

Between the cluttered clacking of sewing machines and the scratch of scissors on fabric, there’s a hum in the room louder than the din of our workforce: excitement. 

Ordinarily, we aren't so lucky. 

We’re the human hands of Sathior Harvani, the artist hailed for her bold designs and fresh take on the virgin-chic movement. She may be Glimner’s fashion designer of the year, but behind her are dozens of human women, indentured to her and her vision. 

We suffer her long hours in a dimly lit work room. Our fingers ache for her. Our backs burn with pain sitting at the machines for hours each day. Our hands bleed on fabric so fine, it’s worth more than we are. 

Ordinarily, it's a cause we’re united in, defined by in the way only a seamstress knows. Yet, leave it to Sathior to find a way to pit us against each other.

“What do you think, Tania?” My bunkmate Alice is as buzzed as I am for the outcome of today’s lottery. Ours is a shared fate in today’s decision. If she goes, I go. “Do you think we stand a chance?”

“Our chances are as good as anyone else’s.” I remind her, pulling a fine synth fabric in a sheer white color from my machine and eyeing it closely under my lamp. A hoverbot leers in my direction, quickly scanning the garment and turning bright green to indicate a passing grade.

 “You have our ticket, right?” I ask her, pulling up the schemes on my comm for the garment’s pattern. 

“It’s glued to my palm,” she admits while pulling the tiny stub from her pocket and producing it on my sewing table. 

“Don’t put it there!” I screech, reaching for it amongst yards of discarded fabric. “It’ll get lost with the cut scraps.”

“Is that likely?” She scoffs, grabbing our lottery ticket and stowing it safely back in her pocket. “You know you’re gonna swipe them today anyway.”

“Shh! Someone will hear you.” I scold her as quietly as I can. I know my voice will drown in the whirr of machines and buzzing voices, but I can't help but check my sides out of paranoia. 

“What you look at?” Nastya, an elderly seamstress sitting adjacent to me, asks accusingly. She is just one of many friends-turned-competition today. As soon as she graces us with her presence, Sathior is set to choose a number. And not just any number, either. Whatever she pulls from her hat will tell us which of the lucky girls is going with her on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Kalei. 

“Nothing.” I blush, reaching for my garment and replacing it under the presser foot. When I hear her machine wind back into motion, the hoverbot ascends in her direction, giving me mere seconds to swipe the scraps off my table into a bag in my lap. Gingerly, I fold the scraps up and throw the bag under my sewing desk where I can sneak it out after work. 

“See?” Alice says, snickering behind her garment with an I-told-you-so expression. But I can’t help myself. At least, not anymore. 

The girls working with me today have long given up on dreams. I can't say I blame them. Work the kind of hours we do with the kind of pay we receive and life’s sure to break you down bit by bit. It almost happened to me once. 

But I’ve always been one for a puzzle. I took notice of every scrap that fell to my feet, only to be swept up by the scrap bots between shifts. Something felt off. Like a missed opportunity, or a piece of the puzzle purposefully thrown away. 

After a while, I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn't let another scrap fall to the wayside. So, they became my stowaways. I ushered them to freedom piece by piece. And over time, I had enough scraps in my bunk to make Alice lose her cool. There was nothing else to do but put them to use. 

I realized there’s more to it than just saving pretty synth clothes from the incinerator. There was a piece missing from this puzzle, and that piece was me. 

I started small, sewing scraps together bit by bit. They didn’t look like much at first. But after years of copying Hathori’s designs, I’d learned something. There was art in those scraps, and for the girl willing to piece them back together, there was an artist in the making. 

“Look at this.” Alice frets over Hathori’s latest design. “It’s a rehashed copy of last year’s Nebula collection.”

“Well, you can’t expect her to make 100% different stuff every time.”

“Why not? You do.”

“She’s the professional.” I shake my head in an attempt to explain it. 

“Yeah, and we’re just the tiny hands doing the labor. And look at this. We can’t even wear this stuff.” She’s not wrong. Ironic, isn't it? The human labor force that makes up most of the garment business these days will never wear anything like the things they make.

“Promise me, that when you become a big shot designer, you’ll make stuff humans can actually wear.” She begs while scrunching her nose at the fabric in her hands. 

“Promise.” I smile as the hoverbot whirs back over our heads forcing us to refocus on today’s sheer, white, bland, lifeless dress. Just one of many I’ve made this year. 

These days, Alice says I could rival Sathior. She’s not half wrong. There’s something unique and fresh in my designs. Sathior may have the reputation, but I know deep down I have the talent to rival hers. 

The long hours I put into this craft may take me a lifetime, but I’m determined to see my way out of my indenture. As far as I’m concerned, if Alice and I win today’s drawing it’s just me manifesting things that are to come. A girl has to pave her way in this world somehow, and if manifesting is all I can do to force a change in my lot, then I’ll just have to work with it.

Suddenly the machines in the room slow and wind to a stop as a large austere figure hushes the room with her arrival. It’s Sathior. 

 She’s cloaked in white, pervading us workers with her characteristic quiet, yet eager stare. A veil decked in pink crystals covers her pale teal complexion as she rustles into the room in a massive sheet of white synth taffeta. 

The shine of her dress blinds me from the back of the room as I feel Alice snatch my fingers with her sweating hands. The ticket is gripped in her other hand, though I know she’s memorized our numbers by now. This trip means so much to her. I want this for us, so badly I can practically taste the sunshine of Kalei from here.

For a second, Sathior leans over my coworkers’ stitching, grasping it in her hands. “Look at that. Amazing. Tiny hands make tiny stitches, I always say,” she exclaims. 

She stands at the top of the sewing den’s mini stairwell, like a queen ready to command her naval ships. Donned in all white, Sathior takes virgin couture to new heights. Her virgincore aesthetic is the talk of the fashion rags, though the claim that she’s never had a man is disputed by none more than those of us who work for her. 

“Greetings happy workers!” Alice stifles a smirk when I look over and catch her gaze. Sathior is a lot of things, observant and intuitive are not among them. “As you all well know, I am anxious to revisit my home world of Kalei. It has been many years since I was last home, and I long for a rest on my country estate. I will require the light assistance of two chaperones for my journey. How lucky am I to find such worthy candidates among my own team of seamstresses?”

The room devolves into blank stares. I guess she doesn't know that the talk gets around. We’ve heard the cover story, and while that might work for her fans, we’re behind the scenes with the legend. 

“Somebody misses her boyfriend,” I can hear Alice mutter under her breath. Sathior looks to eye the speaker, her gaze turning fierce under her veil. Without a suspect, though, she continues detailing the lush tropics of Kalei. I want to listen, I should, but my mind draws to the real reason for her home world reunion.

Under her white veil and perfect untouched aesthetic is a woman. The rumors of her secret lover demanding her attention back on Kalei circled the sewing den long before she approached us with news of the lottery. 

But no matter the reason, eager faces turn to her now, clutching their tickets each in a desperate bid to escape the ordinary. Each knowing that as far as an escape, this is the best chance any of us are ever going to get. 

“Without further ado,” she smiles. “Let’s find out who our lucky girls are going to be.”

Her assistant comes forward with a small silver canister. Our ticket stubs wait inside for the draw and, I swear, in the millisecond it takes for her to pull the ticket from the cup, I already know. Deep down I can feel it. 

“Looks like our numbers are: B3850.”

The grip from Alice's hand nearly cracks my knuckles. “Alice, you’re hurting me!”

“Tania. Oh, my fucking god. We did it. We won!”

“Wait. What?”

“Tania, it's you and me! We’re going to Kalei.” I hear the words, yet through the shock and disbelief that appear on my face, I know deep down, I did this. 

Manifesting. 

It has to be the answer.

Something is coming into my life, one shock and awe at a time. This is only the beginning. 

I just know it.