Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
NICOLE
I might die of embarrassment for these poor clones.
We're in an enormous circular atrium with a domed glass ceiling that filters sunlight in cascading rays.
It feels both ancient and futuristic. At the center of the room, a wide platform glows under a brilliant spotlight, and rows upon rows of seats rise in tiers around the platform, packed to capacity with women clad in variations of flowing, sheer robes.
Their colors shimmer in the light like a sea of opals.
The air hums with excitement, every word and movement amplified by the cavernous acoustics.
The plenary sessions have begun, where each clone has to answer three questions or less, and try to get across why they would be a good mate.
As we get to the afternoon session, they get only one question, and their answers must be perfect, or they risk losing the interest of the females.
They’re scored immediately, numbers floating up from the females’ pads to tally above their heads.
It's a high-stakes game of wits and charm, and I can feel the pressure rolling off the stage in waves.
The clones stand straight-backed, their nerves hidden behind carefully neutral expressions, but I can see it in the tightness of their shoulders and the tension in their hands.
Blood Feather's in my room, sleeping. It seems when he gets lots of attention, he needs recharge time, which I totally understand. I'd be drained in seconds if I had to stand down there and think up a quick, witty answer to a question.
But my focus isn’t on the clones, or the questions. My eyes are drawn, almost magnetically, to Samara.
She sits on an elevated dais at the back of the atrium, a shining beacon in gold layers which shimmer faintly, catching the stray rays of light from the platform.
Next to her, Shara leans in, whispering something, her face alight.
Shara’s enthusiasm is radiant, her hands gesturing animatedly as though she’s sharing a particularly juicy secret.
Samara listens with an enigmatic smile, her expression cool and controlled, the complete opposite of her sister.
It's hard to tell who's the older, because they both look timeless despite the lines etched into their faces: smile lines for Shara, frown ones for Samara.
She's all I thought about yesterday, seeing Arture in agony from the orders she'd given him. My fists bunch. What would it be like to smash her in the face? I watch as Samara gives a small nod in response to Shara’s words, her applause barely audible when a clone scores well.
Shara, on the other hand, beams with pride, clapping enthusiastically like a beaming mother at a nativity play, no matter how well or badly each do.
No one would be able to miss Shara's subtle glances at Samara. Samara’s the silent force that everyone, Shara included, wants to impress.
My stomach knots as I watch the Prif. I know what she’s capable of, what she’s done to the clones under her command. Both Arture's silence and his screams ring in my ears, his constant nightmares and the shock of memories reawakening inside him, torturing him as effectively as the rack.
A brown clone, the chef Arture turned into, is marched onto the centre dais, shoulders squared so tightly they tremble. Poor guy.
“What would you do to please your mate?” the announcer asks.
“I… uh… I can cook, um, whatever she desires.”
Two Parthiastocks close in. Hands seize his arms and he’s shoved back toward the exit arch, boots skidding on the polished floor as the next clone comes forward to replace him.
No voting. No ceremony. Just… gone.
I should be doing something to cheer them on, to give them some kind of chance, but my gaze keeps drifting to the sisters seated high in the amphitheater curve.
Shara leans forward in her seat, bright-eyed and delighted, as though this is sport or a parade arranged for her pleasure alone.
Beside her, Samara smiles too… but it’s thinner.
Her fingers drum once against the armrest before stilling.
And when Samara looks away, Shara’s bubbly demeanor dims. She still watches each clone, chin propped lightly on her knuckles and her expression composed, but her eyes become shadowed with something heavier.
Fatigue, maybe. Or caution.
During a break, I get up. I can’t take any more of this. I push through the gathered crowd toward Samara, my pulse thundering in my ears. If I can get Samara to slip, to admit something, Shara might listen.
"Samara," I say. "I’d like to introduce myself."
Samara tilts her head toward me, her expression polite but distant. “Of course, human. Welcome to Oloria.”
Shara’s eyes dart between me and her sister.
I take a deep breath. “I want to know how many of your clones are competing.”
“I’m sorry, my clones? I don’t have clones.”
I dig my nails into my palms. Laura would do a much better job of trapping Samara with words. “But you have clones. A secret, hidden clone type, which shape—”
“Nic-coal.” Shara rises from her seat and places a hand on my arm, her touch light but insistent. “Samara does not have clones. I should know. Although, I’m happy to create one, should you wish?” She looks hopefully at her sister.
“I do have proof,” I snap, shaking her off. “Arture’s a Samarastock, I’ve seen him shift and change form.”
“Shape changing? That’s nearly impossible, it’s likely to put a huge strain on the clone’s body… But that’s not the point. What are you trying to suggest, Nic-coal?”
“She has a secret clone type with some kind of agenda. She tortured Arture for years, throwing him away when he saved her life and got hurt doing so, then replacing his arm and eye and sending him in as a pilot, spying on Ilia and the others—”
“This is a very fanciful story, Shara,” Samara says, voice low. “What’s the point of it?”
“I don’t know yet. Let me speak to Nic-coal.” Shara smiles at her sister as she pulls me to one side, but the smile quickly drops. “What are you trying to accomplish, Nic-coal?”
“She’s up to something, and Arture deserves answers.”
“Arture is a Pranastock. They’re very single minded and, yes, quite obsessive about their function.
If they cannot perform it, they unravel very fast.” She taps her lips.
“Perhaps that’s it, he’s unravelling and telling you all these nonsense stories.
We should find him and help him calibrate, that will make him feel better. ”
I grip Shara’s arm. “I’ve seen the impact of the mental scars he bears. She tortured him for years—”
“Stop.” Shara’s silver eyes go steely. “I do not want you antagonizing my sister. She was barely tolerant of clones before; there’s no conceivable possibility in this galaxy she could have her own clones.
If you continue, Samara could end all of our progress in a single heartbeat if she hears there’s an unstable clone on the loose.
I could lose everything I’ve worked for. ”
I glare over her shoulder at the Prif. Shit.
Shara sighs. “After the games, we can investigate Arture. Afterwards. But right now, we need to prove females can live alongside clones in safety, and having Samara on our side is crucial for that.”
I clench my fists, trying to swallow down the frustration that burns in my throat. “But I know what she's done, and peace for clones is the last thing on her mind, Shara. Her means don’t justify the end.”
“I’m not sure what that means, but please, I’ve worked for years to make these games a reality. Let these clones have their chance at last, and then I’ll investigate your Pranastock.”
“Is there a problem with the Pranastocks?” Samara has come up on us, her golden eyes narrowing.
“No, no, no problem,” Shara says, voice a little high. The silver scaled Olorian begs me with her eyes to be quiet, while the golden one looks at me like I’m a bug she’s about to squash.
My heart pounds. “I won’t let you win.”
The Prif's eyes flick to me, and then slowly trail down to my neck, like she's weighing me up for a noose.
“I don’t understand this talk of winning,” she says smoothly.
“The clones will show their true scales soon enough.
Enjoy the Mating Games. Will you be taking part?
The final test involves primal thrill, females pretending to be in peril.
It's quite something to have your True Born mate rescue you.
I wonder if it'll be the same for clones, whether that will initiate a mating bond.”
Shara nods happily as Samara muses. Samara’s focus doesn’t land on me, though; she keeps looking at her sister, as if she’s gauging the response to her words.
Measuring them, shaping them to Shara’s reaction.
Her lips curve when Shara looks at her, the smile arriving a fraction too late to be spontaneous.
Her curiosity over clones and mating bonds isn’t real. Her performance is.
Samara must see the flicker of disgust in my eyes, because she smiles thinly and raises her hand toward me. “Don’t judge it until you’ve tried it. I’m sure the clones would be delighted to fight over a human. You’ve become something of a symbol for them, a beacon of hope.”
Her fingers trail lightly across my bare shoulder, and I have to force myself not to shudder. Samara leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’d hate for something to happen to that hope.”
I throw her hand off. Shara tuts.
The Prif smirks, placing the same hand on Shara’s shoulder. “I hope you enjoy your visit to our planet, Nic-coal,” she says, her tone smooth as sugar and just as sickening.
With that, she turns and walks away, leaving me standing in place shaking with anger.
“You’re making a mistake,” I mutter to Shara, but she doesn’t look at me. Her gaze is fixed on the floor, her jaw tight and her shoulders sagging.