Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
ARTURE
The queue for the Euthanization Center moves slowly, bodies shuffling forward in grim silence.
I know exactly how long I’ve been here: cross-calibrating from the movement of the primary star to the number of breaths I’ve taken, it’s been one point eight Olorian hours.
But even in this form, where numbers soothe, every step forward makes each breath a little harder to take.
One scan from the Parthiastocks and they determined my chip was corrupted. It’s hidden from the main system so Samarastocks can remain elusive, but I won’t tell them that. I can’t. Seeing the ruins of my face and the fact I only had one arm sealed my fate: a damaged clone is a useless clone.
The others in line move forward, inch by inch, and I’m another step closer to oblivion. Like the other damaged, useless clones, shuffling along to our end, I have no purpose left. Nothing. Just gray coldness settling into my bones.
I think about Ilia, Gara, the Parthiastocks.
Which far-flung star system are they exploring now?
What new discoveries will they bring back, for the glory of Oloria?
Now that I’m here, being tugged slowly forward, toward my end, imagining what another life would have been like doesn’t feel so seditious.
A figure steps into view, gliding past the queue of doomed clones like a phantom. Her silhouette, draped in shimmering fabrics that catch the light, makes my heart skip a beat.
Samara. My Prif.
Relief floods me, stronger than the shame that immediately follows it. Why is she here?
She’s flanked by two Samarastocks. They aren’t wearing their true scales, they’ve morphed into Parthiastocks, but I can tell who they are by how they move, moving through the lines like blades rather than thumping like a true Parthiastock’s heavy steps.
These ones haven’t learned they need to blend in with their actions as well as their forms.
“You,” they growl at me. “Out of the line.”
I point at the chain around my neck, rattling the one on my wrist.
A true Parthiastock hurries over, glaring at the imposters. “What’s wrong? Is he giving you trouble?”
“We’re picking him out, by order of the Prif,” the Samarastocks say.
Finally, the Parthiastock sees the Prif nestled like a gem between her two bodyguards. He immediately falls onto his face. “I’m so sorry, I did not see you, esteemed female.”
“Well, now you have. Release this clone into my care immediately.”
He does so, unlocking my shackles with trembling hands. Once I’m free, I stagger to the side, and the Samarastocks lock the luckless Parthiastock into the line. He gapes in shock.
“Now die,” Samara hisses, turning away. A Parthiastock will obey that order immediately. They’re second only to Samarastocks in feeling orders seared into their scales until they’re carried out.
I follow at a respectful distance from Samara and the two Samarastocks. She came for me. She saved me. My eyes burn with tears. I should have known that leaving me broken and alone on the other planet was one of her tests. Perhaps she’s pleased I’ve passed.
As soon as we get into her golden vehicle, she scoots far away from me.
The two Parthiastocks drop their purple scales, shrinking slightly into the familiar broad-shouldered, cold-eyed form.
My true form. I’d never been jealous of my fellow clones, but now I envy their whole bodies.
At least I’d sacrificed mine for a good reason, and I wait for her to say something, anything.
Even if she looked my way with a smile on her face, all my pain would have been worth it.
Her eyes flick over me with barely concealed disgust, and she turns away.
I bow my head, a sting slicing through me. It’s because I’m a Pranastock as well as debilitated.
“Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me?” Her words cut deep. “You were seen leaving a ship, and then you vanished. My Samarastocks hunted you for days.”
My hearts leap. “I didn’t realize you were looking for me, or I would have come straight to you, Prif—”
“They only found you when your chip got scanned. Because you got caught.” Her eyes burn.
Is she upset I vanished, or that I got caught? To be safe, I say, “I’m deeply sorry.”
The other Samarastocks smirk over Samara’s head at me, so she won’t see, and the injustice burns the back of my throat. I want to throttle them, spit in their faces, and ask how they would fare outside of Samara’s light. But they’d beat me easily when I only have one arm.
“The ship you were in. Did it have a Gerverstock, a Selthiastock, and three Parthiastocks?” She hisses the words as if each clone type is a curse.
“Yes,” I say.
“What's the Gerverstock’s designation?”
“Ilia.”
The sharpness of Samara’s gaze slices through me like a blade.
“Ilia?” she repeats, her voice laced with venom. “He’s got a name instead of a designation? Was it given to him, or did he choose it himself?”
My head swims as if each of her questions is a blow. “I don’t know.”
She turns her face away in disgust. “Of course you don’t. You didn’t think to gather intelligence on such an unusual clone for me. Only Samarastocks are allowed names…” She glances at her watch, “Arture.”
The joy of her finally voicing my name wars with shame settling heavily over me, but along with the agony of her displeasure, a pang of guilt drops into my chest. It hurts to think of them, back on that ship, blissfully unaware that the Prif’s attention is now on them.
And if she targets them… they will all be eliminated without question.
The car flies us to Samara’s compound, my head racing for something I can say. I should give Samara more information on them if that’s what she wants, but my mouth remains shut. I don’t want to tell her anything, and I don’t have to, because she hasn’t ordered me to.
Once we land, the two Samarastocks grip me by the arm and shoulder.
The one on my right side winces, and revulsion turns his handsome face into a twisted mask.
I look away, unable to confront him, because I’d be feeling the same way if I was the whole Samarastock required to touch such imperfection.
They lead me deeper into her compound, Samara ahead of us. We walk through twisting corridors, her heels clicking on the polished floors, echoing in the cold, sterile silence of her chambers.
We descend level after level until we reach a door, one I’ve never seen before.
My heartbeats drum in my ears as the door slides open, revealing a small, dimly lit chamber.
A single desk and padded chair are the only furniture, lit by bright lights from above, and there’s a grate in the center of the room.
The Samarastocks steer me to stand over it, then finally let me go. I sway briefly before I straighten my stance, planting my feet as if claiming my space.
Samara sits, her stare making my scales prickle with unease.
“Can you still shift?” she asks, her tone clinical, as if she’s merely inspecting a malfunctioning piece of equipment.
“Yes, Prif.”
“Show me,” she demands.
I close my eye and focus, letting go of the Pranastock. The familiar sensation washes over me, and I relax back into a Samarastock, my scales tingling as they finally relax into gold, my limbs reconfiguring into my own, sturdier frame.
When I open my eye, I catch the glint of satisfaction flickering in her cold eyes.
“There’s that at least, but we’ll need to correct the loss of your arm and eye.”
I bow my head. Is she bringing me back into service for her? The idea makes my hearts race as fast as they do when I’m taking on another form, and I can’t quite tell if it’s from excitement or fear.
Her long nails tap on the smooth Milagrove wood of her desk.
That much Milawood is a planet’s worth of wealth, and it's locked away in a small room. “You’re very fortunate, Arture. You’ve spent time with the rogue Gerverstock, so I have questions for you.
Why is this Ilia attempting to enter the mating games? ”
I hadn’t known Ilia had entered the Games, but it strikes me as a very Ilia thing to do. “I don’t know, Prif.”
The tapping stops. “What is my sister up to?”
Is that a question I'm expected to answer? Samara has always shared with us that she believes her sister created the clones as her own personal army. It’s why Samara crafted her Samarastocks, loyal only to her. Protection, and insurance.
“In my opinion, I… I think this is Ilia just being himself. It’s how he is.”
Samara scoffs, crossing her arms. “And Shara keeps crying that the clones only follow orders, only do what they’re told. You’re telling me there’s evidence this clone is thinking for itself?”
Bitter bile tracks up my throat. We do think for ourselves, within the parameters of our orders. Ilia’s template is to explore, to enter new grounds. In a way, he is following his core objective, to go where no clone has ever been able to go before.
But I know, with sick certainty, that Ilia and his crew are now doomed.
The Prif taps her chin. “Either my sister is trying to win some kind of recognition for her clones as thinking, sentient beings, and has ordered this clone to try to enter the Games, or it’s breaking its programming. A clone thinking for itself is dangerous.”
I say nothing, and neither do the two Samarastocks behind me.
Samara’s words are law, unassailable truth.
A clone thinking for itself is dangerous indeed, which is why we have our ingrained programming with her testing layered on top, a complete failsafe.
That’s why we’re the superior clones. We are loyal on so many levels, a Samarastock would have to be broken beyond their physical limits to betray her.
We will literally die before we fail our mistress.
Getting up from the table, Samara crosses to me. “Because you’ve met them already, because you’re already broken… You’re best placed to bring me useful information about him. Which is why you’ll go undercover, Arture.”