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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 backinto 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. Therewasa 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?Youdo.”
“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.
