Chapter 2
TWO
ARTURE
The sudden appearance of a cocoon startled me as it unraveled from the ceiling, but it takes all my self-control not to burst out laughing.
Obaya robes prevent Nicole from falling further into the training facility and save her from a far more painful landing, the fabric tight and bunched around her cocoon.
Her sturdy, scuffed boots present a hazard as she swings at head height, especially because I can’t tear my gaze away.
Translucent folds cling where they were never meant to, framing the powerful curve of her thighs and the generous swell of her hips as she hangs suspended, slow-swinging and undeniably on display. While she's no Prif Samara, the human has pleasing enough curves to look at for sure.
I fold my arms. “Most… impressive.”
“Hi,” she says, voice muffled. “So. How’s your day going?”
“Satisfactory. Yours?”
“Could be worse.” She swings back and forth, making her muscles flex pleasingly.
“Do you require assistance?” I ask, a mocking edge to my voice.
“No, I’m okay. Enjoying the view, really.”
“So am I,” I murmur, more bold with this female than clones have any right to be.
There’s a reason for that, although I can’t remember.
The void behind my thoughts stays silent, vast and cold.
I leave it there. There’s enough emptiness outside the ship’s hull; I don’t need to explore the void inside my head.
My mistress, Samara, will be pleased when I return.
Only one truth has surfaced so far: bring a female to Oloria.
The core directive hums in my bones. Less important parts, like details, motives, and context, are swallowed by darkness.
I don’t push at it. The past isn’t useful, only the present is. Hesitation leads to failure.
I announce, “I hope you’ve had your fun and learned your lesson, as humans say. Time to go back to your room.”
“Really, I’m hunky-dory as I am,” she protests. “I’ll sort myself out when I'm ready.”
I reach for her. “I insist—”
“Don't touch me.” The order crackles.
I frown. Her quips just now were likely borne of nerves.
Could she be… afraid of me? Guilt twists low in my chest as I let my hand fall back to my side, slow and careful so I don’t startle her further.
I hate that my presence brings fear instead of comfort.
Clones are meant to serve, to give. Not cause fear.
I really must be different, but she’ll forgive me once she gets to Oloria.
I peer at the loops of the robe holding her pinned. She can hardly move at all, neatly wrapped in a bundle like a gift. But while I don’t trust the robes to hold forever, she’s not in immediate danger.
She seems to realize that as well, letting her swing come to a stop. “So. Uh. This is what you get up to all day.”
I shrug, hiding my triumphant smile. Because I'm free. Well, if you count being forced to lounge on a luxury spaceship “free,” which I absolutely do. Even if I can’t remember my past, it’s far better than that fucking Pranastock.
I can finally move again, draw a full breath into my lungs, and walk without my hearts going crazy.
Worst of all, a Pranastock’s only concern is constantly running vectors and angle calculations in their head, so they can pilot in three-dimensional space at any moment.
I shudder. I'd rather rip my own hearts out before existing as one of those types of clones again. Every day was a struggle, and I’d had no idea why. It always seemed like there was a pane of glass shoved between me and my crew mates.
Makes sense now. I literally wasn't myself.
I say, “And this is what you do, hm? Try to escape?”
Her brown eyes flash with ire. “Can you blame me? And can you please turn that racket off?”
“Racket?” I cock my head.
She’s grits her teeth. “That… music.”
“Ah.” One thing the Pranastock form did do for me: I became obsessed with listening to shortwave communication frequencies.
Absolutely riveted. My pilot brain was looking for updates on atmospheric conditions, but I absorbed the culture, semantics, and phrases through the talk shows in between.
It means I'm practically a human by now.
While the Pranastock persona listened to the radio, I took in human soundscapes. Deep into the Earth night, there was this frenetic type of beat which, now, very much reminds me of the pace of my hearts when I’m transformed. No wonder I was drawn to it.
I wave my hand, and the computer shuts off the discordant melody. The resulting quiet cloaks us, with only the creak of the broken panels and her breathing to break it.
I grasp her warm ankle, sticking out from the cocoon. “You’re coming down now.”
“No, don’t!” Her free leg kicks, catching me squarely in the head. “Sorry!”
Grabbing her other ankle, I tug.
“Ow!” She gasps.
I steady her slight weight, barking, “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s obviously something.”
“My hoofpick caught me. My hand’s scratched.”
“You’re hurt?” My fault, for pulling her. “That’s it.”
I cheat a little. Or use my unique tactical advantage, whatever.
With a bit of concentration, the essence of a Gerverstock fills my senses: their stern blocky faces, wide shoulders, and fierce loyalty.
My body fills the mold I make for it, muscles doubling, scales multiplying, bones stretching, and my mind slides to fit.
All at once, I'm calm, collected, and highly aware of my surroundings.
I check myself out in the mirror again, and Ilia’s double looks back at me.
Throwing up a grin a Gerverstock would never make, I admire my new blue scales and how they ripple to dark purples and greens.
I like being a Gerverstock. Along with intelligence, Gerverstocks have that amazing extra strength they can yank out of their ass when they need to.
A flash of red runs up my arms as I call on that power, but my hearts beat like I'm running. Drok na. The strain increases the more I try to use another clone’s unique ability.
“Hello? Earth to Arture? Are you helping, or not?”
Scales flickering red as I pull on that strength, I lift her legs so her calves rest along my neck.
Her knees clamp instinctively around my head, squeezing my temples. “What are you doing?”
“Hold tight.” My hands slide up to her waist and I step back. She slips free of some of the robes with a soft sound, and I support her easily when she drops onto my shoulders, thighs snug against my neck.
“Whoa,” she breathes, fingers lacing into my hair for balance.
“There we go.” Releasing the Gerverstock shape, I return to my true form, shoulders shrinking but still wide enough to support her thighs.
“I could probably pop your head like a grape,” she says.
What a way to go. “You’re welcome to try.”
She glares down at me from between her breasts, and I grin up at her from between her thighs. “This is rather cozy,” I add, but then a coppery metallic scent hits the back of my throat.
Blood.
Drok na, she’s bleeding. My gaze snaps to her hands. “Which one got lacerated?”
When she doesn’t answer, I grab her waist again and try to lift her off, but her legs cross, keeping her locked on my head and shoulders.
“Really?” I sigh. “This is more entertaining than the training facility, but you’re in need of medical assistance.”
“I can handle it. I’m a vet.”
“A veteran?” My eyebrows rise. Perhaps she does have some combat skills and this is actually a precarious position to put myself in. Nanites can’t fix a snapped spine.
“A veterinarian.” She corrects me with brisk efficiency. “Animal doctor.”
Oh, so essentially useless out here. My shoulders relax.
But at the same time, the word doctor chimes. That's what we need here. I’ll change to a Selthiastock.
I slide my hands down to her hips to hoist her down from my shoulders when she tightens her thighs, compressing my neck and jaw.
“What are you doing?” she snaps.
“Getting… you… down,” I wheeze. “Need to… change…”
“Change? Into what?” She eases up her muscles, but not her interrogation.
I pant, “A Selthiastock, like Gara.” I reach up between her knees to rub my throat. “Ow.”
“There’s more where that came from. Why do you need to be a Selthiastock?”
“To treat your injuries.”
She tuts. “I can do it. I don't really want you touching me.”
“Too late for that,” I note. On a whim, I rub my cheek against her inner thigh. She gasps, skin flushing, and then squeezes. Hard.
She leans down, face filling my vision, her voice a low threat. “I’ll make you a deal. Take me to the medical bay, and I’ll let you go.”
Despite my position, a chuckle escapes me. How adorable. I could throw her off, carefully of course, march her back to her room, and dump her on her bed. Once I’d locked her back up, I’d go get the med kit from the medical bay and bring it to her.
But there's no harm in taking her to the med bay. It's something to do apart from eat my weight in rich food, work out, and release emissions until I pass out. What else is there to do on the ship? I need something to keep me busy, something to stop me circling back toward the expanse of emptiness in my history. It’s a blank screen, no input on it, and I don’t want to go scrolling around in there.
“Very well,” I say.
She opens her mouth as if to protest, but then closes it and nods.
I slide my hands more firmly around her hips, thumbs pressing into the warmth there, feeling the give of muscle beneath the thin fabric.
Her weight is nothing even in this form, but I don’t want to drop her and cause more injuries.
I brace my stance and lift, easing her weight forward and down.
Her thighs loosen reluctantly, heat lingering against my jaw as she slides past me, the faint scent of her—salt, soap, something uniquely human—clinging to my senses.