Chapter 32 #2
“It’s not about anyone’s safety,” I tell Nic-coal.
“It’s about the Prif retaining control of the females.
A clone killing the All-Mother will solidify she was right all along, with the added benefit of no one remaining to oppose her.
” The betrillium cuffs bite into my wrists as hard as the fate closing in on me.
“But I haven’t killed a female. I didn’t end Katyen, she chose to end herself. ”
The Prif’s sneer returns. She raises her arm, a small discreet blaster in her hand, and she aims it directly at Nic-coal.
She may as well have aimed it directly at my hearts. I'd prefer that. Even the Samarastocks startle.
“You will,” the Prif says quietly. “Or she dies.”
“You wouldn’t,” I choke out. “She's a female.”
“She’s not. She’s an insult to all womankind across the galaxy. A traitor.” The Prif raises her voice and asks Nic-coal, “Do you care about base animals on your world?”
Nic-coal doesn’t hesitate, her voice firm and unwavering. “Yeah, I do.”
My gaze locks onto my beautiful human, her defiance burning as bright as the light she shines for those around her. She doesn't look at the gun pointed at her, nor at the Prif’s sneer. She looks only at me, eyes glittering, no doubt worried more about me than herself.
The Prif smiles, cold and cruel, as she tightens her grip on the gun. “Ridiculous. She’s not a true female, and I won’t hesitate to kill her.”
My body trembles. I’ve resisted her commands, resisted the programming she forced into me, the darkness she tried to instill in me.
But with Nic-coal’s life as the price, I have no choice.
The perfect Samarastock. That’s what she made me.
So I will be.
I get to my feet. All I see is Nic-coal, her eyes widening as she realizes what I'm doing. Still, her gaze is rich with trust and something else—something I don’t deserve.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says, her voice quieter now, soft and pleading.
But she’s wrong. I do have to do this.
It’s the only way.
Straightening my spine, I ignore the sharp pain that lances through my body as I make my decision. I lift my chin, a spark of defiance igniting in my chest.
Taking a deep steadying breath, I ground myself on Nic-coal’s rich brown eyes.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
The ride in the flyer is suffocating. Not from the stale, recycled air, but because the Prif sits across from me with her blaster pressed firmly beneath Nic-coal’s chin.
Nic-coal’s face is calm, defiant even, but her eyes betray the torment raging within her.
It kills me to see her like this, to have our final moments together poisoned by the Prif’s presence.
I'm not going to survive this. I'll be euthanized for sure.
The Samarastocks stationed around us glance toward Nic-coal, their scales shimmering with subtle ripples. The one holding Blood Feather sits next to me, the tiny horse unable to move in his hard grasp.
"The Prif is supposed to protect women," I say. "Not threaten one."
A flicker of hesitation crosses their stoic faces, but the Prif chuckles.
"She isn’t from a species worthy of protection.” Her blaster tilts slightly, forcing Nic-coal to lift her chin higher. “Bonding with clones is one thing, but forming mental links with Parthiastocks sealed it for me. They're on the same level as clones.”
“Brave words, for someone surrounded by clones right now,” I fire back.
“You all know the truth in your selves,” the Prif says cruelly. “You're bags of muscle and conditioning, driven slavishly to serve, obsessed with your orders.”
The Samarastock’s scales harden with soft clicks.
“You're more than that,” Nic-coal says, but the press of the Prif's blaster into her throat makes her wince.
My hands flex uselessly. If I wasn't convinced Samara would be able to fire before I could reach her, I'd snap the Prif's neck already. A throb starts in my head at the idea, but I counter it with Nic-coal’s safety, and there’s no contest.
“Nic-coal has shown more courage and strength than anyone here," I fire back. “She’s compassionate to everyone she meets; she probably even feels bad for you.”
“Nope,” Nic-coal says, eyes blazing.
The Prif’s lip curls. "Compassion is a failing of the lesser species. It allows weakness to flourish."
The Samarastocks exchange glances again, their scales flickering. One opens his mouth, and my hearts leap. Yes. Rebel!
He says, “I have his new orbital implant here. Shall I install it?”
“Why isn’t it done already?” the Prif snipes.
The Samarastock transforms into a Selthiastock, grim faced as he pulls out a new eye module.
“No. Don’t,” I say.
“Comply, or else.” Samara doesn’t have to wave the blaster around.
My shoulders slump as the others grab hold of my arms and force my head back. The Selthiastock climbs into my lap, kneeling on my thighs, and inserts the new robotics.
“Connecting now,” he murmurs. But there’s no insidious crawling feeling inside my orbital socket, no whirr internally as it boots up.
His green eyes flash as they look into mine. “Operating at optimal capacity.”
I flex my hand. I don’t feel any different.
Did he…?
The Selthiastock pushes off my chest, melting back into a Samarastock. He bows his head to Samara and sits back down, arms crossed.
When the flyer lands outside the Euthanization Center, we can only watch as Juran and Ezla are dragged out and thrown at the back of the queue.
Silent tears track down Nic-coal’s cheeks as she takes in the rows of clones shuffling with bowed heads to their fate.
I catch a glimpse of Juran fighting as a Parthiastock unleashes a psychic attack to bring him down, and Ezla tries to come to his aid before he's forced back and cuffed to the end of the line.
That’s all we see before we take off again. Getting them involved was another wrong decision. Seems I’m making shitty choices recently.
The flyer drops me off at the Oasis where the presentation for the Games winners will be held, and the Prif remains in the shadows with Nic-coal beside her.
I can’t dart for Nic-coal, the Prif is on edge as it is, and she might actually kill her.
Instead, I’m left behind, my insides hollowing out as the flyer takes off into the night.
I make my way to the competitor’s bunks, but I don’t sleep. I can’t. I turn into a Pranastock, the constant calculations fuzzing my mind enough to keep my secret buried safe inside.
When morning comes, I do what I have to do mechanically. I shift into a Selthiastock briefly for my final preparation, and then I’m ready.
The third-place winner, a Gerverstock, barely has time to react before I knock him out cold. His form crumples, and I drag him into a storage room, becoming his double and taking his uniform and place in the lineup.
The compound is alight with lanterns that glow in shifting hues, casting a warm glow over the festival proceedings.
The awards ceremony is at the top of the cliffs cradling the oasis, and the winners get a parade up to the summit.
The crowd of clones below cheer in a rhythmic chant, their voices blending with the blare of triumphant music.
They all mill about with smiles on their faces, the air thick with the scent of spiced food and victory.
But none of it reaches inside my cold chest. I’m numb, my mind fixed on one thing.
They don't know what's about to hit them.
The stage at the top of the cliffs is blinding under the lights, the stark white rock reflecting the glow.
Camera drones flit like metallic insects, vid screens flashing the faces of the winners, each image larger than life and accompanied by pulsing fanfare.
Women recline in elaborate palanquins under the shade of silk canopies, their scaled hands clapping politely, their smiles warm and approving.
Three plinths stand on the edge of the platform, ready for the victors to take their places.
As I step forward, playing my part as the third-place winner, a female leans out to toss me a favor, an embroidered scarf with gold thread.
Another follows suit, offering a ribbon tied to a small charm.
I catch it deftly, bowing slightly in acknowledgment.
Whoever this Gerverstock I’m impersonating was, he must have been popular. Too bad for him.
We march into place behind the podiums, the roar of the crowd swelling as the three of us take our positions.
The other two winners, blissfully unaware of the ticking time bomb that is me, beam at the audience.
I stay stoic, unreadable, my face carved from stone.
The cheers grow louder, and the All-Mother steps forward, radiant in silver, her presence commanding.
She begins her speech—something about clone rights, how far we've come, the trials we’ve endured.
Her words wash over me, a meaningless string of platitudes.
I’m not here for her, or for this crowd.
The one I'm doing this for is probably nearby, watching.
I think of Nic-coal, the shocking depth of her heart.
I know her well enough to know what she’d say now: she’d weigh her life as less than the lives of all these clones who’ve been overlooked for so long and suffered much, who are counting on today to mark a turning point.
She’d see the bigger picture, as she always does.
But I’m not like her. She’s a good person, and I’m not. If I have to kill to save her, then so be it.
Once the All-Mother’s speech ends, I take the third place up on the podium. It’s fitting, really, that I’ve taken the form of a Gerverstock. Ilia’s dreams started all of this, unraveling the Prif’s plans for control and the chaos that’s followed. And now everything ends here, on this stage.
The All-Mother approaches me first, her presence commanding as the cameras focus on us. She carries the ceremonial wreath meant to signify third place, her smile wide and proud—until she sees my metal arm.
The moment stretches, her smile faltering, her hand freezing mid-air.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
Her eyes widen, jaw dropping.
Then my blade lashes out.