Chapter 27 Laura
TWENTY-SEVEN
LAURA
The grand hall of Samara’s fortress gleams with smooth cream-colored walls, lined with bright Olorian flora glistening under golden-hued lights like a perpetual sunset. Dozens of women gather, laughter and chatter filling the room like the scent of their perfume.
And all I can think about is Dom. He's awake and fighting, but he keeps blocking me out.
I can't reach him no matter how much I try.
Dom, silent as he stands next to me. Dom, keeping all my secrets.
Dom, tirelessly helping me try to learn how to modulate my mental voice, enduring my frustrations.
Dom, working so hard for everyone else around him, taking their pain.
Taking my discomfort, small and large. Taking me as I am and accepting me, all of me, the workaholic along with the wreck.
I can’t lose him.
Holding myself back from marching over to Samara and giving her the Morgan treatment is the hardest thing I've ever done. I've got to leash my anger and use it like a scalpel, not a sledgehammer.
Samara glides through the crowd, regal and self-assured in her bastion. The cluster of friends around her erupt in laughter at something she’s said. They definitely look at Samara as a leader.
But I know a leader can be swayed. People like her, like Morgan, have power because others allow them to have it. So, I need to make Samara give in to their demands.
The only way I'm going to save Dom is the only way I know how: attacking from the legal standpoint.
I make my way over, plastering a calm smile on my face as I join the circle of women. Samara acknowledges me with a slight tilt of her head, amusement glimmering in her eyes as if she knows exactly why I’m here.
“Prif Samara,” I say, “it seems Dom is on his way to the Euthanization Center.”
Chatter halts briefly, but then resumes. Perhaps this is normal dinner party conversation: the weather, latest scientific advances, and a nightly bulletin on how safe they are based on the kill count of clones.
Samara’s small, condescending smile looks absolutely slappable. “Of course. When a clone is guilty, we don’t waste time.”
“Interesting. On our world, we have a principle of proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Evidence, witnesses, a fair process. I’m sure Oloria values fairness as well?”
A ripple of interest passes through the women listening, and a few of them nod.
Samara’s smile tightens. “He is guilty. Returning from exile is a crime, and the punishment is clear. There’s no need for ‘reasonable doubt’ in this case, either. He’s just a clone.”
I press my lips together, biting back a retort.
Dom has proven to me, over and over, that he’s more than they give him credit for.
Samara knows that, and she's so desperate to protect the status quo she'll ignore it. Maybe some of these women know the clones are capable of more, but now isn’t the time to argue that particular fight. I have to dismantle her step by step.
“I think it's a waste.”
She doesn't move. “Clones aren't anything special.”
My chest burns with the injustice. Nothing special?
Then why does life without him feel like an impossible void in my mind?
The thought of waking without his steady warmth beside me, of losing the safety and chaos and stubbornness that is him—it’s unbearable.
He has woven himself into the fabric of my days without asking, without trying, just by being who he is. My protector. My confidant.
I know what he is: someone who steadies me when I can’t breathe, who didn’t let this world’s cruelty carve the goodness out of him.
Somehow, this place didn’t crush his capacity to care.
And I love that about him. I want to nurture it, to build a future where he doesn’t have to flinch at commands or carry chains of obedience. Where we can simply exist together.
Samara continues, “Parthiastocks in particular are nothing. They're an early template, and—”
Burying everything rising within me, I say sweetly, “Oh, no, I mean, it's a waste of an opportunity to test your laws the Earth way. It’ll help make them stronger.”
Imaya perks up, the way I hoped she would.
I raise my voice. “After all, societal laws need to be safe, fair, and correctly applied. There are so many places they can accidentally fail.”
“Such as?” a redhead asks, her tone accusatory. She's a Samara die hard.
I count on my fingers. “Letter of the law versus spirit is a big one. How do we know whether it's being applied as intended?”
“Because I made the law, and I can see how it's being applied,” Samara says curtly.
“So do you make all the laws?”
“The ones that matter,” she snaps, then glances at her friends.
They look at each other. Good. A small crack of doubt I can stick a wedge into.
“So, let's say all important, crucial laws were made by you.”
“They are,” chirps in Blondie, Samara's chief cheerleader.
I could kiss her. “Right. So the spirit and the letter hopefully match. That needs testing.”
“Our laws are strong enough without needing primitive Earth techniques—”
“But it can't hurt, can it? Perhaps I could learn something from the exact wording you've set down into law.”
Her eyes widen slightly, and it's all the opening I need.
“You do write down your laws, don't you?”
“They're simple, easy to digest and apply,” Samara counters.
“Ah. So the letter and the spirit thing I mentioned… it's just you, interpreting it each time?” I click my tongue. “Doesn't seem efficient. What if you want to go on vacation one day?”
“The Voices know my intent,” Samara says.
We're locked together in a back and forth but I need to add more voices to mine. Some of her own people’s.
“Other places it can fail are in application. What's the judicial process like?” I ask the redheaded Voice.
She opens her mouth when Samara interjects. “This doesn't apply to clones. There's a higher standard for True Born Sons, higher still for females.”
“But is it the same basic process?”
“Yes, but simplified,” the Voice explains. “For True Borns and females, we require evidence from each side of the dispute. For clones, once the transgression has been assigned a penalty, that penalty is carried out for all others who commit the same crime.”
“But how do you know they committed the crime?” I press. “How can you be sure they're guilty?”
“Because the claim will have been brought forward by a True Born or female, whose word is worth infinitely more than a clone’s,” Samara says, like it's evident.
To them, I suppose it is. Everyone's nodding as if females can't possibly be corrupt and abusing their power. But if I point that out, I’ll probably be carted straight back to the All-Mother’s ship.
And Dom’s running out of time. Half an hour, he said, and it’s slipping by so fast I can't check how long it's been since I last spoke to him.
“I admire the clarity of your laws,” I say. “I love that they're simple and easily interpreted and applied. I think they can be strengthened, though.”
“On what basis? You haven't studied them,” redhead counters.
“That's correct. I'd love an opportunity to do so.”
“Please, be my guest. I'll have a True Born bring a pad so you can examine judgements at your leisure,” Samara offers.
“But the laws aren't written down, you said. I'd need to see a real trial.”
“Then the next one we have, you can sit in on,” the Voice says, beaming. “I'd be delighted to host you.”
I'm losing ground, slipping.
Samara's eyes flicker. “I can see you're an intelligent, driven female. I admire that. But your fixation on the clone is misguided. Rest, and I'll send some True Born males to delight you. They don't disappoint.”
Great, Samara's taking pity on me due to how badly I'm failing Dom.
I have to take control.
Taking a deep breath, I plunge onwards. “Was his trial for him alone? Was the evidence against him watertight?”
Samara’s face hardens. “He was tried along with his entire crew for failing to secure resources resulting in the death of a female.”
“Katyen,” Blondie says sadly.
That doesn't seem fair to me, but clearly it’s a reasonable basis for conviction and just punishment here, as no one's protesting.
Imaya says, “Such a rare disease. We've still only had one instance, nothing for the Selthiastocks alongside me to work with.”
Samara's gaze drops away from mine. “I don't wish to cause a stir, but her death… her death wasn't from a disease.”
The friendship group all go quiet. “What do you mean?” the Voice asks, breathless.
Samara’s gaze flicks up, piercing me as if she's about to set out a winning hand in poker. “I have evidence she was poisoned. Whether by the Parthiastock or his crew, it's irrelevant. He's a dangerous clone, and must be punished as an example for the others.”
Cold crawls up all my limbs, biting like ice water threatening to submerge me. Shit.
‘Dom, I'm sorry. Please, don't give up.’
Only silence resounds in the connection between us. Where is he? What's happening to him? I push but I can't get past his thick shield.
Why did I ever think this would be a good idea? How arrogant was I to assume I could waltz in and use their own legal system against them? He's been tried in the court of Samara's head, but that doesn't bother her friends all that much.
If only they had a real process. Something I could grab onto with my fingernails and prize open. What they have is like the flyer, lifting off with nothing for me to get hold of, Dom hustled off to his destruction as if he's an inconvenience.
Wait. No. He's viewed as a criminal.
That's perfect.
I keep my voice carefully casual, though my heart pounds. “Poison sounds serious. That's murder. Has anything like this ever happened before?”
“No,” the Voice admits slowly, glancing around. “Nothing like this has ever taken place. We’ve never had a case of a clone committing such a crime.”
I press further, seizing the moment. “So, under your system, he needs a trial. You need to determine the correct punishment, right? You said you run a trial in order to put that into your laws.”
Samara’s lips tighten, and I see the conflict in her eyes—a crack in her ironclad certainty. “The outcome will be the same. He'll be disposed of, but in the dock this time. You'll have to watch as he’s euthanized.”
It's as if a hand clasps around my heart, my ribs hurting with each breath I take. If I panic, if I can’t do this, or if I try and mess this up, Dom will die.
But he's definitely going to die if I don't try.
The Voice shudders. “That's the worst,” she mutters. Seeing Samara's glare, she quickly adds, “I know they’re just reacting to stimuli, they don't feel the same way we do. But it's still… hard to watch.”
Samara turns her fierce look on to me.
I don't back down. “It's your own system. I'm just pointing it out to you.”
She hesitates, weighing my words. She’s a leader, and she knows the value of public perception.
I have to press just a bit more.
“After all, if the objective is a safe society, doesn’t a transparent legal system serve that purpose best?”
Imaya steps in, nodding. “Laura has a point, Samara. This could be a chance to show our people that we uphold the highest standards of justice.”
Samara’s gaze flickers between me and the other women, the weight of her agreement pressing on her. She's probably mentally calculating the political implications, the optics. She may not want to offer mercy, but she understands the importance of appearances.
Finally, she nods, a glint of reluctant acceptance in her eyes. “Very well. If it would satisfy our people, we’ll conduct a trial. But let me be clear—this doesn’t mean he’ll be spared.”
I give her a small, respectful nod, concealing my relief. “Of course, Samara. A fair trial is all I’m asking for.”
The murmurs among the women around us grow louder, a mixture of intrigue and approval.
Dom’s faint presence flickers in the back of my mind, the connection between us weak but steady. At last! I open wide to him, not caring if I'm shouting. ‘Dom?’
Pain slams into me.