Chapter 3
Keandra
By the time I reach the market strip, the posting is already surrounded by women. That is the first thing that hits me. Not the sign. Not the words Tigris Match Opportunity glowing in clean white letters across a black display screen. Not even the official crest stamped in the corner beside a wall of legal language and compensation terms. It’s the crowd.
Women from my district. Women from the blocks beyond it. Thin women. Tired women. Women holding children on their hips. Women in coats better than mine. Women in coats worse. Women pretending they are just curious. Women too desperate to pretend anything at all. The line wraps halfway around the square.
I stop just outside the flow of bodies and stare. For one second, I think about leaving. The whole thing feels too public. Too humiliating. Like stepping into that line means admitting in front of strangers that I have run out of better choices.
Then I look back at the screen.
Women selected for the Tigris pairing program will receive relocation, legal marriage placement, protected housing, foodsecurity, and financial support according to match class and territorial assignment. Biological, pheromone, and fertility screening required.
Below that, in smaller print:
Some assignments may include royal, military, or territorial leadership pairings.
A woman near the front lets out a short, sharp laugh.
“Royal. Sure.”
Another says, “I’d marry a scaled beast if it came with hot meals.”
No one laughs at that.
I lower my eyes and get in line.
The morning drags. Every few minutes, an official comes out and lets another group inside. The building behind them looks cleaner than anything in this part of Mars has a right to be. Smooth dark panels. Guarded entry. Frosted windows. No smell of grease. No chemical runoff. Even the air near the doors feels different. Filtered. Expensive. Cleaner than the air people like me are meant to breathe.
I stand there in my old coat and worn boots, painfully aware of every stain at my hem and every thin patch at my elbows. I can feel the women around me doing the same thing I am. Smoothing their hair. Straightening collars. Trying to look more presentable than hunger allows.
The girl in front of me glances back and gives me a quick once-over.
“You here for real?”
My spine stiffens.
“Yes.”
She shrugs, but her face is tight. “Just asking. My cousin said the Tigris males are huge. Mean too. Said half of them aren’t even city men. Horde types. Wild ones.”
I say nothing.
She gives a small, uneasy smile. “Maybe that’s still better than here.”
I can’t argue with that.
When I finally reach the entry desk, a clerk scans my wrist tag, checks my identity, and hands me a thin metal tablet.
“Read and acknowledge the preliminary consent terms before proceeding.”
I step aside and look down at the screen. The wording is formal.
By continuing, I agree to biological screening, blood collection, fertility evaluation, scent compatibility processing, and physical examination for suitability within the Tigris reproductive and partnership program. No guarantee of a match. No guarantee of assignment. Selected applicants may be relocated off-world permanently. Final marriage contract terms depend on the specific matched male and territorial class.
My mouth goes dry at the word reproductive. I read everything twice anyway. I learned the hard way that poor people sign things too fast and spend the rest of their lives paying for it.
Then one line catches in my head and won’t let go.
