Chapter 25 Laura
TWENTY-FIVE
LAURA
As the car glides smoothly down the road and then into the air, I curl my fingers into the seat of my chair. Shade’s utterly still, as if they know exactly how much shit we're in.
I'm opposite Samara, but I wonder if I should have sat next to her.
She has a pad that displays images and numbers in the air in front of her, and she makes a few calls.
“A human, yes. I'll pick you up in a click,” she says, then swipes a string of numbers toward the front of the vehicle.
It changes direction, swooping smoothly to one side.
“What are you saying about me? Who else is interested in humans?”
Samara clicks her tongue, not looking up from her pad. “Only everyone. Humans are fashionable right now, so everyone who’s anyone wants to meet one. They all speak Earth, so they'll understand everything you say.”
“This is just one language from the planet Earth, English. We have thousands of languages and dialects.”
Finally her gaze snaps up to meet mine. Her eyes are a deep chocolate brown, with ruby around the irises. “Multiple languages on one planet? That must lead to many misunderstandings.”
“Frequently.”
She sits back, contemplating me as we pick up more female Olorians. Are these Samara’s friends? Maybe they're people she wants to impress, if humans really are the toast of the season right now. She seems the type to show me off if that's the case. I have to try to use that.
Once it seems we've got our passengers, a blonde, two redheads and a brunette, the car takes off again. The gazes of the other four females in the car drift over me, assessing my shirt and pencil skirt, stained with Dom's blood.
I ball my hands into fists, pressing my nails into my palms.
“Good morning, I’m Imaya,” the brunette says, brown scales shimmering. “I’m a researcher in off-world biology. I met the other human who came here.”
“Ellen, or Arabella?”
“Ellen, I think. With the Gerverstock who entered the mating games.”
Samara waves her hand and six glasses of bubbling liquid rise from a center console, blocking my view of Imaya. She lets her friends take theirs first, but I don't reach for one until she does.
“Tell me more about your planet, human,” Samara says, her tone somewhere between condescending and genuinely interested, like she’s waiting for me to say something she can mock.
I answer carefully. “We have a complex society. We try to coexist with other cultures, though we’ve had our share of conflicts, so we're well-versed in war.” Just in case they decide to add imperialistic ambitions to their weekend plans.
The redhead with ruby scales sitting beside Samara chuckles softly. “Our society had its own wars, long ago, but we learned from them.” She smooths a curl behind her ear, a touch of pride in her voice. “We’re a post-war civilization now, thanks to the leadership of our Prif.”
I lick my dry lips. “How'd you manage that? Seems like we could learn a lesson or two.”
“Simply reduce need. Once all needs are met, there's no reason for conflict.”
Sounds easy. Too easy. “From what I've learned from my friends”—they don't need to know I mean the other clones too—“you still go to other planets to meet those needs.”
“We only take resources from non-sentient planets. We have no desire for war with anyone.”
Shade’s feelers writhe in my pocket. Dom said these plants came from another planet. They must have been considered non-sentient enough to take.
I wonder whether those definitions are as squeaky clean as these women seem to believe they are.
Samara takes a sip. “From the actions of you humans so far, I take it males are rare commodities?”
“What do you mean by ‘from our actions’?”
“You humans seem intent on securing males for yourselves, even if they’re lowly clones.”
Lowly? A spike of anger makes my chest constrict. Steady. “The clones are sentient, no matter what level of society they are. They have emotions, thoughts, dreams—”
“Clones are our workers,” the blonde chirps. “Automatons meant to fulfill their functions, not to question or feel.”
“Dom feels. Ilia, Gara, all the others, they feel.” My voice sharpens, ragged at the edges with fury. How dare she dismiss them as though they’re nothing? As though Dom could be reduced to a tool.
“Reflexes. Nothing more.” Samara sighs. “I shouldn't have let Shara base them off Olorian templates. If they looked like globs of matter, no one would try to read thoughts and dreams into them then. Or mate with one,” she scoffs.
The other females nod apart from Imaya. Samara's got her yes women on tour, it seems.
My chest tightens further, a molten pressure beneath my ribs.
Dom isn’t some experiment gone wrong. He isn’t reflex or programming.
He’s the one who steadies me when panic tears my breath away, who kisses my forehead as if I’m worth cherishing, who trusts me despite the utter mess I’ve made of my life.
His life isn’t disposable. It means everything.
I bite back from screaming, shoving back my rage. “Is that why you’re so harsh with them?”
Samara's eyes narrow. “We’re firm with all males. They once ruled this planet, and their recklessness led us to near-destruction. We barely survived as a species. Now their numbers are limited and controlled, and those that exist must serve. They have a single purpose, and no more.”
She glances at me, her lip curling in disdain. “Clones are different. They are cheap imitations, incapable of true thought or emotion.”
“Or at least, that’s how it should have been,” Imaya says quietly. “There's mounting evidence to the contrary, Prif.”
“Some researchers claim they have complex feelings, personalities. It’s as absurd as if this flyer were to suddenly demand a mate.”
Her words echo in the silence, the redheads and blonde nodding. I'm pretty sure I’ve read a book about that, but that's beside the point. I don’t care if their society views Dom as a mere tool. To me, he’s so much more. If I have to prove his worth to them, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.
One of the redheads tilts her head. “You could have one of our males, you know. A True Born son, properly bred for service.” She says this with an air of casual generosity, as if she’s offering me a priceless gift. “They’re kept in luxury and trained for a singular purpose—pleasing us.”
The other chimes in with a playful grin. “You could have as many as you like. You’d have a loyal companion with an actual personality.”
I don’t hesitate. “I want Dom.”
Samara’s eyes glint. “Perhaps for now, but we can show this poor traveler true luxury. You would have a better life here, being served and greatly desired.”
The idea’s tempting, this world where everything seems to be tailored to female desires. But it's hollow, shallow, missing the kind of depth that makes relationships meaningful.
I lift my chin. “I prefer my partnerships to be built on mutual respect.”
The women exchange glances. One of them lets out a soft laugh she quickly smothers in her drink.
But Samara's face is the one I'm focused on. Her reaction matters the most.
And she's almost laughing.
Imaya interrupts. “What do you do on your world? Research?”
Ah, the question dreaded by the unemployed. “Lawyer. Law interpreter.”
“Oh, the Prif's laws are so clear, we don't need interpreters,” a redhead says, taking a gulp of her drink. “It doesn’t take long to understand them.”
That's not necessarily a good thing. Clear can still promote inequality.
“Lawyers also have another function. In a way, we test the laws.” I glance at Imaya. “Rather like scientists do, we're trying arguments and testing both the spirit and the letter of the law.”
Her attention focuses on me. “Spirit of the law? What's that?”
I've hooked her. Good.
“It's the intention behind the law. The letter of the law is literal interpretation, but the reason it came to be and what it’s supposed to remedy might be missed in application,” I explain.
The redheads and blonde lean in. Imaya's eyebrows rise. “How do you test a law?”
“They're usually tested and added to in trials.” I'm being a bit loose here, but trial outcomes do form precedent for other similar cases coming after them.
Imaya's eyes gleam. “Sounds interesting. I'd love to see it in action. I'm a Voice for Samara, whenever my research doesn't need me directly supervising it.”
“What's a Voice?”
“I implement our laws to new situations and speak on how the law will apply to them.”
Sounds like a judge. “And are there Voices for either side of the argument?”
“Only one Voice is needed, because my laws are clear.” Samara’s expression darkens, her face tightening. “They were designed to be easy to apply.”
“Ah, yes. Your laws.”
I let the resulting quiet sink in to the others, especially Imaya. I can only hope she's using her obvious intelligence to see what I see: Samara making the laws as she sees fit. Next I need to help others question whether that's in everyone's best interests.
And Samara knows that's what I'm doing.
‘Dom, I'm fighting for you,’ I send to him. ‘I'm doing battle the best way I know how, with words.’
There's no response, nothing from the connection between us. Without him listening, soaking me in, my thoughts echo, hollow and empty.
Like my promise to him. He got shot, when I promised he'd be safe. My sanity may be on the line, but I didn't think it'd truly be at the cost of his life. He knew what would happen; he willingly embraced death for my sake.
I have to do better. I can’t fail him. He might think himself replaceable, his culture might view him as little more than a malfunctioning cog, but he’s so much more than that.
The sleek car hums beneath us as it hovers, then gently descends, touching down on a stretch of pristine, cream-colored stone.
I peer out the window. We've landed inside the walls of a compound, like the walled estates of the ultra-wealthy back on Earth, an oasis of luxury hidden behind towering walls that cut it off from the rest of the world.