Chapter 13 #3
“Scales.” I pick at a loose one at my thigh, biting the inside of my cheeks from the pain as I pluck it free. Placing it flat on the table, I focus on shifting to a Gerverstock.
Nic-coal takes a hurried step back as I swell to fill the chamber, bashing against the table. “Whoa. Well, good news, your joints don't seem to be stiff. Do they need oiling at all?”
“I have protective oil, yes.” I stare at my loose scale. It stays Vestifax brown until I pick it up, and then it turns petrol blue to match me. “Good.”
“Do you have any of the oil? Perhaps you can put some on now, and that'll be good enough?”
“Good enough?” I echo, voice quiet for a Gerverstock. “No. It's not good enough. I need to be able to shift and change my whole appearance without anyone noticing my deficiencies.”
“Deficiencies… Arture. That's not what these are.” She peers up at me. “Are you okay? Ever since we mentioned Samara, you're different. Is there something you remembered about her?”
My hearts pound against my chest. Only how she saved me. How she replaced my limbs with her precious robotics.
And how my deformity disgusted her.
“I have to cover these, I don't know why I didn't try this before. If I peel off a row of scales and attach them, they should change color with the rest of me.”
Nic-coal winces. “Peeling scales sounds painful.”
“It is, but it's a small price to pay to have Samara look me in the eyes and not shudder at the metal marring her perfect creation. “
“Arture, you… you don't sound like yourself.” The concerned expression on her face stirs something hot and thorny inside me. How dare she question Samara? How dare she question my loyalty?
My voice rises, words spilling out in a heated rush. "You have no right to question me about her. Samara protects us all. I wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for her."
My fury echoes in the dead ship, but Nic-coal's expression remains steady, unaffected, and that only stokes the fire inside me.
Without another word, I turn and storm away, leaving her sitting there.
I need to channel this into something productive.
Something to get me closer to fulfilling my orders.
Outside, darkness lurks, the stars glaring and nearby galaxies a bright stripe across the sky, oblivious to me storming on this tiny planet beneath them.
Shadows of the native ungulates move slowly, lumps drifting like ice across a sea.
Like icebergs, danger hides under the surface, and these animals can charge at any moment.
Without turning around, I know Nic-coal is behind me. Her presence soothes me like nothing else.
And it’s wrong.
I grab the shovel, my hands gripping it so tightly my knuckles turn white.
I plunge it into the dry, stubborn earth, over and over, shoveling out dirt as if I could dig my way through my anger.
The water has to come closer to the ship, I might as well start the trenches here.
We’re running out of essential power, and every second I spend fuming is a waste.
Added to that is the sting of my metal arm, starting to seize in the misty air without the substance Gara developed, immeasurably better than mine because he’s a true Selthiastock who turned his full attention to solving the problem.
Because he cared about me. Ilia cared. Dom and Arik and Nevare cared. And I… I betrayed them. Every second I spent with them, I was secretly betraying them.
That’s what hurts. I followed my orders… and it hurts.
“Argh!” With a feral scream, I call on Gerverstock strength and snap my shovel in half. It doesn’t help ease the pain inside. Panting, I slide back into a Samarastock, my true form. The spy.
Silver glimmers on the horizon. My muscles ache from strain, but nothing compares to the pure fire consuming my chest and stomach, the guilt worming its way through me like a vine sprouting thorns. I need to get rid of this somehow.
An animal call floats on the air, and my hearts thump. The herd. They’re out there, somewhere. Again the thunder of hooves echoes back to me, and I feel the pain as one of them sweeps me into the crush of the stampede. I glance up to see where they are, and I startle.
Nic-coal’s digging a length away, starting the channel I’ve begun but far enough away from me to give me space at the start. She didn’t say anything to let me know she’d actually joined me in digging, and she’s within arm’s reach now.
I stare at the tiny, hard-working human.
She looks up, gives a half wave, and continues.
She doesn’t demand an apology. She doesn’t even mention how I shouted at her, how I stormed off.
She simply digs, breaking through the strip of soil between us.
We're one step closer to leaving this planet.
One step closer to fulfilling my mission.
She wipes her forehead, smearing dirt across her face.
Her eyes are fathomless depths, but there's sadness in there now. Because of me. Her quiet acceptance sends a pang of something I can’t name sliding through me.
If she were any other female, I'd be apologizing with my face in the mud, but… Nic-coal doesn't want that.
‘I’m sorry,’ seems so small, so inadequate. How do I apologize for being the person I am? How do I make up for this entire mess? I don’t deserve her quiet understanding, her resilience, nor her strength and companionship. I don’t deserve any of it. And soon, she's going to realize it.
She hesitates, then speaks softly, almost as if the words are too fragile for the open air.
“I wanted to say sorry for pushing you. It must be really hard to work through all this, and you only have me to help. I’m not qualified to handle everything you’ve been through, all the trauma you’re carrying, but…
I’m all you’ve got. And I can’t not try to help. I just… I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
“You did nothing wrong.” The words come out automatically, but there’s more to it than just my training, more than the constant reinforcement that females are infallible, above question or reproach. “It’s me. I’m… broken.”
“You’re not broken, Arture.” She rests her hands on the handle of the shovel, looking toward the rising sun.
“Maybe you were broken in, trained and molded into something that fit their design, but that’s not all there is to you.
You’re intelligent, funny, definitely annoying, and you’re stronger than you think for even trying to challenge all of this. ”
She takes a deep breath, glancing down before meeting my gaze, her brown eyes steady and sincere.
“I want to help you. I don’t want to make things worse, and I don’t want to force anything on you.
Just know that, regardless of what anyone else says, including me, even Samara herself…
you are you, Arture. You’re not just what she made you to be. You’re more than that.”
Her words settle into me, like a new navigational coordinate in empty space. I forget all the expectations, all the conditioning that tells me to dismiss this as weakness. She sees me. All of me.
I watch her walk away, an ache that has nothing to do with the physical strain of digging radiating through my body. She’s stronger than she lets on, never asking for anything, never demanding anything more than what she gives.
As she disappears back into the ship, a strange, hollow sensation settles in my chest.
What am I doing? Who am I?
And a third question gnaws at me: Who is looking after Nic-coal?
For all her assurance her friends give her what she needs, they aren’t here now.
Even she can’t carry the weight of the universe on her own.
The times I’ve caught glimpses of her vulnerability strike me: when she was desperate to leave the Nexas, or when she stares a little too long up into the empty void of space, a hint of loneliness in her eyes.
She’s always looking out for others, but who’s there for her? I want to stand by her side not as a guardian or captor, but as someone who sees her hidden strength and respects it. Who lets her work with horses even though it’s dangerous. Who makes sure she knows she’s not alone.
But what can I do for her?