Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
ARTURE
Two things bother me. Number one is, I don’t know which clones milling in the barracks at night are Samarastocks. Number two is, I would hate to kill someone only to find out I’m wrong.
I lie in a spare bunk at night, staring at the ceiling, pretending I’m resting while my mind races.
Clones mill around, some trying to rest like me, others too excited to even try.
A Magirustock gives my bunk a longing look.
Could he be a Samarastock? I can't bring myself to make the leap to targeting them, even though I need to remove the Samarastocks to keep Nic-coal safe—argh, to win.
To win, I need to remove the competition, and the only competition is other Samarastocks.
It shouldn't trouble me to remove clones, just in case. The ultimate mission is worth it.
And yet, it does. My time with Nic-coal and her compassion has opened up other ways of thinking for me. I was always aware others have motives, but now I actually care about them.
It's unsettling. I almost wish I was a Pranastock again, so I could think in binary terms, yes or no, on or off. Because if this droking compassion is going to get in the way of saving Nic-coal—argh, I mean winning—it can get fucked.
What's also pissing me off is my limp. I can't use my left leg as effectively as before, and there's no privacy whatsoever to quickly shift to another clone type and check whether the defect carries over.
I need to find some Samarastocks so I can beat the shit out of them and feel better.
I let the thoughts churn for a moment, then stop myself. That’s the wrong approach. Thinking like a Samarastock won’t help me find them. I need to think the opposite of a Samarastock.
I have to team up.
Sitting up abruptly, I scan the competitors, looking for the Lautostock, Juran. Paying attention to personality and movement, I can tell the small differences that set clones apart. Many Lautostocks won’t meet my eyes, but Juran’s got more confidence than that.
A Lautostock sits with his back to the wall, a data pad in his hands. On it scrolls data about plants, another Gerverstock specialty. He’s the one I’m looking for.
“Juran.”
He looks up at me. “What is it?”
I grin. “Would you take me to Ezla so he can rebreak my leg?”
Juran blinks at me, scales flickering a confused blue. “What?”
“I’m serious. I need to get back to full strength, and fast. Ezla said he'd reset it, so let's do it now, before the next trial.”
He puts away his pad, frowning, but doesn’t protest. We hop off our bunks, which are quickly claimed by other clones, and head toward the healer’s tent outside the barracks. Juran’s steps stay steady beside me, his free hand out ready to catch me if I stumble.
He brings out his data pad. “I’ve been studying the plants that’re likely to crop up in the jungle trial.”
“Mm,” I grunt. “I’ve seen enough rare plants as it is. Guaranteed they’ll be the ones which hurt rather than heal.”
The younger clone’s blue-green eyes sparkle in the rods lighting up the pathway to the temporary healer’s station. “Do you think? I can’t wait.”
I shake my head, but can’t suppress my smile. “You like plants, then?”
“Yes.” His gaze snags on the ones we pass, in borders alongside us. His enthusiasm reminds me of Nic-coal. Small creatures crawl in the undergrowth, and while I'd never thought about them before, Nic-coal would be fascinated. A lump as hard as a Gerverstock’s abs forms in my chest thinking of her.
Time to gamble. I don’t think Juran is a Samarastock, but this’ll be the true test. “There's no simple way to say this, so I'm going to come right out with it.”
Juran focuses on me. “What is it?”
“I believe all females should be kept safe.”
His frown is pure confusion. “Well, yes. Of course.”
“All females, including those from other species.”
Juran’s eyes widen. “Ah, that’s an interesting perspective. When you’re off world, do you eat only male animals? Oh. The milapaste we eat is technically from the female tree. I’d never thought about that before.”
Shit, I’ve created a male-atarien. “Human females are females too,” I continue. These are all phrases that don’t go against my orders, and the Samarastocks who’ve been spoken to by Samara herself have orders to the contrary.
The Lautostock frowns. “Of course. Nic-coal is very definitely female. She has mammaries.”
I resist the urge to crush his windpipe in my fist for noticing her ‘mammaries.’ I’m trying to make friends, not more enemies. “Some clones might not think the same as us,” I finish.
He stops in his tracks, scales draining pale with confusion. Finally, he’s dead serious. “What are you talking about? Is there a threat against Nic-coal?”
At last. “I need you to report to me any clones you think are acting… odd. Acting too much like themselves.”
He tilts his head. “What does that even mean?”
“Like stereotypes. A Parthiastock dazed because he’s too focused on mind waves. A Selthiastock obsessing over a cure, even though this is the worst possible time for that. Anyone whose answers at the plenary seemed too generic, too rehearsed.”
“Why?”
I clench my jaw. I can’t tell him the whole truth, my conditioning won't let me. “Just… trust me.” Drok na, that’s hard to say out loud.
Juran studies me for a long moment, his scales flickering with uncertainty. “You know, I could say you’re the most suspicious clone here. But then again, you’re taking charge and leading like the perfect Gerverstock. So maybe not.”
His words hit me like a jolt. A Samarastock would want to appear as the most physically dominant, imposing type of clone, wouldn’t they?
I meet his gaze, my voice firm. “Focus your efforts on Gerverstocks and Parthiastocks.”
Juran’s scales blanch instantly. “In that case…” He hesitates, his expression darkening. “I already know of a few claiming they’re from J batch, but I haven’t met them before. And I know every Gerverstock in J batch. They’re the same age as me, I used to clean their barracks.”
“Excellent.” The Samarastocks’ obsession with perfection will be their undoing. The more they stick to how a Gerverstock is supposed to act, the more they'll out themselves. It really is perfect.
Inside, the healer’s faded tent is quiet. Ezla works to one side, cleaning instruments, his tall, wiry frame silhouetted. His sharp green eyes sweep over Juran and me, pausing on the tension in my posture and the unnatural angle of my leg.
"You again," he says, his voice dry and faintly amused. “Did you reconsider?”
“Yes.” I sit on the edge of a cot, my hands gripping the edges tightly. The dull throb in my leg is constant, a reminder of the damage I let heal wrong during the trials. I can’t ignore it anymore; the weakness will cost me—or worse, cost Nic-coal.
“Ezla, I need you to break it. Reset it properly this time.”
The Selthiastock tilts his head and examines me. “You’re sure about this? It’s not going to feel good, and will need time to heal.”
“I know. Just do it.”
“Wait,” Juran says. He pulls a microfiber cloth from his pants and hands it to me.
I rub it in my fingers. “What, you want me to clean something first?”
“No,” he says with a scowl. “You can bite down on it.”
“Hm. That’s thoughtful. Thanks.” I let out a long sigh. This is hard, and not just because of the pain.
I meet their eyes. “Believe it or not, it’s really hard for me to trust anyone with this,” I say to them both. “All of it. But I… I think I can trust you two.”
Ezla nods and runs his hands along my left leg, pausing at a particular spot. “Here,” he says calmly, like we’re discussing the weather and aren’t about to shatter my bone.
Juran’s scales flicker between blue and pale white. I brace myself on the edge of the bed. “Just do it.”
Ezla doesn’t give me time to regret it. His fist comes down hard, and pain rockets up my leg, blinding and white-hot. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood, but I don’t make a sound.
The Selthiastock is already moving, his hands fast and precise as he begins shoving my bones around, putting them into the correct place to allow my nanites to heal them properly.
“Good,” Ezla murmurs, voice soothing. “This will heal even better than before. Just breathe.”
“You’re insane,” Juran mutters.
I breathe heavily, sweat dripping down my brow. “Maybe. But I’ll be ready when it matters.”
The tent flap opens and three Parthiastocks and two Gerverstocks walk in. Their gazes immediately lock on me.
What shitty timing, but at least I don’t have to go looking for the Samarastocks after all.
Ezla glances up. “What can I help you with? You’ve all walked in, which is a good si—”
“Leave,” barks one of the Parthiastocks.
Ezla straightens, scales standing on end. “Why?”
The Parthiastock’s scales shift to an ominous shade of red. “You dare question us?”
I force myself upright. “Get out of here,” I say to Juran and Ezla.
Juran doesn't move and Ezla frowns, sliding in front of my cot to shield me. “What’s he accused of? He's in the middle of treatment, can it wait?”
The largest of the Gerverstocks steps forward, his presence heavy and commanding. “Then you’re both complicit as well,” he says, his tone flat. His eyes lock onto mine. “That Gerverstock is coming with me.”
I lean back against the pallet, pretending my leg isn’t a screaming furnace of pain. “I’m not going anywhere. Least of all because I’ve just broken my leg.”
“We have orders,” the Parthiastock says.
I narrow my eyes. “Orders from who?”
“The Prif,” the Gerverstock replies.
Ah. Nic-coal’s clever question must have spooked Samara. She’s moving fast and ordered my capture. The familiar pull to obey Samara’s will tightens like a yoke around my neck, but I can still resist a little. I don’t have direct orders, not yet, and I can still prioritize winning the Games.
But Juran and Ezla shouldn't get involved, especially not against the Prif. Ezla steps back reluctantly with a glance at me, and Juran's storm-grey scales harden as he moves aside.