Capture

Matti Kole crouched in the dim glow of her bunker terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard as she cross-checked the last of her water filtration logs. The air tasted stale, recycled through filters she'd patched together from scavenged parts. Five years since the collapse, and she still tracked every variable like it might save her. It had, so far. The reinforced door above her hummed with the faint vibration of surface activity, but nothing unusual. She adjusted her ponytail, auburn strands escaping to frame her sharp cheekbones, and reached for her ration pack.

A low rumble cut through the silence. Then another. Boots. Multiple sets. Matti's green eyes snapped to the monitor feed. Three figures in reinforced colony gear breached the outer hatch, rifles slung low but ready. "Scouts," she muttered. New Eden's enforcers. She'd heard the broadcasts, the quotas, the promises of protection in exchange for compliance. She wasn't interested.

She grabbed her pack and the pistol from the locker, moving toward the secondary exit tunnel. Too late. The main door groaned under a breaching charge. Metal shrieked. Matti fired once, the shot pinging off armor, and then hands seized her wrists. Strong. Professional. "Dr. Kole," one scout said, voice muffled by his mask. "You're coming with us. Colony intake protocol."

She twisted, elbow connecting with his ribs, but there were three of them. They pinned her efficiently, zip-ties biting into her skin. "Let me go. I have supplies here. Independent survival data. You don't need to do this." Her voice stayed level, precise, even as her pulse hammered. They didn't answer. One injected something into her arm. A sedative, mild but fast-acting. Her vision blurred as they hauled her up the ladder into the ruined daylight.

The transport vehicle rattled over cracked asphalt. Matti blinked awake in the back, wrists bound, seated between two scouts. Outside, the skeletal remains of the old world flashed by. One scout, a woman with a scar across her jaw, glanced at her. "Bunker was well-hidden. Took us two days to triangulate your signal. Smart, but not smart enough for the long haul."

"I was managing fine," Matti said. Her mind raced through escape vectors. None viable. "Fertility isn't a resource to be claimed. It's mine."

The scout chuckled. "Tell that to the raiders. Colony's got walls. Food. Medicine. You'll see."

They reached the gates of New Eden at dusk. Massive concrete barriers topped with razor wire loomed over the convoy. Floodlights swept the approach. Matti was pulled out, legs unsteady but functional. Captain Solen Vilmont waited at the checkpoint, silver hair cropped tight, blue eyes assessing her like inventory. "Dr. Matti Kole. Former research lead. Fertile age bracket. Welcome to intake."

"I didn't volunteer," Matti said, meeting his gaze. Her athletic frame tensed under the scrutiny, full breasts rising with each controlled breath. The captain nodded to the scouts. "Medical first. Standard assessment."

They led her through the outer ring into a sterile wing. A medic in white scrubs directed her to a table. "Strip. Full exam." Matti hesitated, then complied with clinical detachment, folding her clothes neatly. The examination was thorough. Hands palpated her abdomen, measured her hips, drew blood. A scanner hummed over her pelvis. "Ovarian function optimal," the medic reported. "High fertility index. Breeder grade A."

Matti's stomach tightened. "I'm a scientist, not livestock. My knowledge could help your agriculture systems, your water recycling."

"Noted," the medic said without inflection. "Colony prioritizes population growth. Quotas are mandatory. You'll be assigned a pod in the low-tier breeding wing. One primary sire rotation per cycle, plus observation requirements."

They dressed her in a simple gray jumpsuit that clung to her curves. Captain Vilmont appeared again with a tablet. "Rules are straightforward. No refusal of assigned pairings. Public ceremonies are logged for morale. Free-use protocols activate in the central hall after initial assessment. Resistance delays your rations and protection status."

Matti's jaw set. "I won't participate in forced matings. Find someone else."

Vilmont's expression didn't shift. "You will. Everyone does. Transport to orientation."

The observation chambers lined a long corridor. Glass walls overlooked rows of padded platforms where women in similar jumpsuits moved through clinical routines. Some knelt. Some were positioned on all fours, hips elevated, while men in enforcer uniforms took measured strokes. Monitors displayed heart rates, conception probabilities. Matti stopped short, breath catching. One chamber showed a woman gripping the rails, face flushed, as her assigned partner thrust steadily. The wet sounds carried faintly through the vents. Another featured two men alternating, the breeder's body slick with sweat and fluids, eyes half-lidded in what looked like reluctant surrender.

"This is the intake preview," Vilmont said. "To illustrate efficiency. Your pod is 47. Low-tier means shared resources until your first confirmed cycle. Primary sire assignment pending genetic match."

Matti's analytical mind catalogued the details even as heat crept up her neck. "The psychological impact of public exposure alone would degrade performance. Studies on stress hormones show clear fertility reduction."

"Colony data suggests otherwise," Vilmont replied. "Many adapt quickly. Some request increased rotations."

They reached the pod wing. A small, functional room with a narrow bed, storage locker, and wall terminal. "Breeder 47," the door scanner announced. "Initial resistance logged. Compliance training begins tomorrow."

Matti stepped inside, the door sealing behind her. She pressed her palms to the cool wall, mind already mapping variables. Escape probability low. Integration inevitable unless she could leverage her skills. Yet the images from the chambers lingered. The sounds. The way some of the women had arched into the contact despite the setting. Her body registered the threat, the inevitability, with a traitorous flicker of awareness she immediately suppressed.

She sat on the bed, green eyes fixed on the terminal as it flickered to life with quota projections. "I won't break," she whispered to the empty room. But the colony's machinery had already begun its work.