Chapter 11 #2
I smile at her, reaching out and wiping away the small imperfection. Then I realize I'm staring into her sparkling brown eyes and spin around quickly.
Grabbing a flat tool I brought with us, I start digging a hundred meters from the hot lake as our first pool. Without a word, Nic-coal grabs a tool and digs in, her spade sinking into the soil opposite mine, working methodically through the earth with a quiet determination that matches my own.
It’s… comfortable. There’s a rhythm to our work, to the soft, steady scrape of dirt being moved. The sky shifts above us, from the burnt orange of late afternoon to the deep blue-gray of twilight, stars beginning to blink into existence one by one.
By the time we finish our first run to the nearest rocky outcrop, darkness has fully settled, blanketing the landscape in cool shadows and quiet. I set the first pump up, and a gush of warm water leaps the other side of the rock formation onto the bog ground beyond. By morning, this will be a pond.
“I think that's enough for today,” Nic-coal says, leaning on her tool. “Either that went by really fast, or the days on this planet are short.”
“They seem to be shorter.”
Brushing off her hands, Nic-coal says, “I don't suppose you're up for making more seedcake? I don't think there's any left.”
“Of course.” I think of what my Magirustock personality can do with the small bounty of seeds we collected as we worked. She's going to love it. “Seed cake it is. Let's go back, I'll do some extra foraging and start making our meal.”
She yawns. “I'll help after I’ve washed up.”
I still can't get over the shock every time she throws herself into work. This woman really is like none other I've heard of. That I can remember, anyway.
As we make and eat dinner, the ship feels warmer than it ever has before.
Even when we're silent, there's an ease between us forged by all our work together today.
I've felt something similar, but I can't remember when.
None of my experiences being grown in the tubes and my early years serving Samara seem to match the feeling; those years are empty and lonely in comparison.
“This is sooo good,” Nic-coal says, popping another piece of seedcake between her lips. Her soft, plump lips.
“I'm so glad you like it. There's plenty for tomorrow as well. And speaking of tomorrow… follow me.” Rolling to my feet, I beckon her toward the medbay with one of Gerharm's spare torches.
Bottles and jars have rolled into every corner, and Nic-coal winces, hunkering down. “I really need to tidy this up.”
“Hm. I could shift into a Lautostock, but… they’re useless,” I say.
“Why’s that?”
“They have a drive for neatness and that’s about it.
They’re strong enough to haul large pallets around, sure, but I have a Gerverstock for that.
Gerverstocks trump a lot of clones for general intelligence, strength and impressive physique.
But for this, probably a Selthiastock will be best, to identify the bottles. ”
Her hand lands on my wrist. “You don't have to switch between forms, I'll tidy these up if you help me read the bottles.”
This female. I don’t shift form, but my hearts still thump as hard as if I had.
Can this truly be just because she wants me to take her home? Or is there something… more? I've rarely experienced such consideration.
It's time to give some back.
Once the floor is cleared, bottles grouped roughly in the order Nic-coal wants them, I pull on the Selthiastock. “I had an idea today.”
“Oh?” She brushes back a strand of hair from the pink skin of her forehead.
“Yes.” Coming to stand close to her, I touch her reddened cheeks. “I can make you something to protect your skin from the sun here and render you unpalatable to insects, but…”
“But?” she prompts when my words trail off.
“But I'd need another kiss.” Do I really?
It would help me as a Selthiastock to analyze her skin type.
But do I really need it to make a skin emollient?
No. The Selthiastock splutters at the idea of taking advantage of a patient, but under my scales, I'm not an honorable type of clone at all. I want another taste of her lips, and I’m not above stealing one.
She meets my gaze squarely, unafraid. “Really?”
“Really.” I widen my eyes, radiating earnest sincerity.
She leans in close to me. Resting her hands on my bare chest, she tilts her head back.
Holy fuck, it worked. I dip my shoulders, eyes closing as my lips quest for hers.
“Nope.”
My eye pops open to her grinning face.
She puts her index finger on the tip of my nose and pushes back. “Boop.”
With a grimace, I let her go. “How'd you know?”
“I just know when you're lying. Or, rather, stretching the truth.”
“But what gives me away?”
“Aha, that's my secret.” She taps the side of her nose. What is it with her and noses? She continues rifling through the bottles, grin still in place. “I bet something here will work nicely as sunscreen and bug spray.”
Amazed she saw through me, I fold my arms and watch her. This little human is full of surprises.
But soon her smile fades and a yawn takes its place. She rubs her arms and gives a huge shiver. “Man, I hope I don't freeze tonight. Last night was rough, it took ages to get to sleep and, I don't know about you, but the metal plates in my head ache when it's too cold.”
Before I can think about it, I say, “Use me.”
Her sleepy eyes sharpen. “Pardon?”
“I can adjust my body temperature with ease. But I… I guess that doesn't help you unless I kind of… sort of…” Drok na, why can't I get the words out?
Her eyebrows rise right into the wisps of her hair. It doesn't help me formulate my idea into a sensible sentence.
“I could sleep next to you,” I blurt. “On top of the bed covers, not in it. I'd overclock my heating and you wouldn't freeze.”
“Trying again?” Her amused smile cuts me.
“No. Not this time.”
Nic-coal's face changes color again, a rich red rising on her cheeks. “It's okay, I'll live. Uh. Right. Bedtime for me.”
“Right. Yes.” I hope this world has earthquakes, because I need the ground to open up and make me disappear right the fuck now.
Once she's gone, I drop my head in my hands. Argh. But once the shame of that dies away, and despite all the challenges, the terror of the morning, the hard physical work of digging, today has been… a good day. This camaraderie, this warmth, it’s something I’ve had before, if I can only remember where.
As I mix up a lotion for her, my mind wanders.
Do I even want to remember? I glance into the mirrored surface, taking in my robotic arm and eye.
My blithe assertion earlier that only the present matters seems flimsy now, when there's a nagging, teasing feeling there's something I'm missing, something to help me complete the calculation.
Where have I felt this companionship before?
Just as I pour antiseptic into her lotion, the smell hits me. Gara's operating table. A spike strikes with jagged shock into my skull.
I get around the ship tolerably with only one arm and one eye. Calculating the precise trajectory of my steps counterbalancing for the lack of a limb on one side comes easy in this form.
What I hate is seeing myself reflected in shiny surfaces, so I plot courses to avoid vidscreens and any rooms with plasglass.
It’s not only the lack of my arm and eye; the gray and red scales I see aren’t…
me. Samara’s last orders to shift into another form pulses through me, turning my stomach more and more every day.
I could slip into a Selthiastock to assess the damage myself…
argh, no. Pain blazes up from the back of my head. I can’t even let myself think that.
So, I take any duties the Gerverstock finds for me. Putting items in order, counting for manifests, data entry. I'll do anything to pass the time between missions hopping from planet to planet. I won't let Ilia's motley crew think I'm here to laze about.
The crew has an easy way with each other. Gara's sour humor mixes well with Arik's cheery brightness to make them all laugh; Dom’s quiet concern for everyone else means we're always well-prepared and provisioned. Nevare’s turn of phrase makes us all think, and Ilia… Ilia is unique.
He's radical without breaking any rules. He wants more for himself and for his crew, and demands it without punishment for failure. He strives always to learn, to understand, to do better, and I can see how his drive inspires everyone around him to do the same.
But it's not to be. I can’t stay here, where mind-readers and curious inquiries might pry Samara's secrets out of me.
On the approach to Oloria, I tell Ilia, “I have to go.”
Concern flashes across his broad, open face. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Is there something I've done, or something else you need?”
All I can do is shake my head. I want to stay, I want to be part of this, but I can't fully integrate with them. There's still a pull to my purpose. I need to return to Samara.
Ilia sits down slowly next to me. “Is there somewhere you'll be safe?”
I set my jaw and lie. “There are places I can go.”
Ilia watches me carefully, then nods. “Just one thing.”
I face him, expecting him to demand payment.
“You have a life worth living,” he says, his voice soft. “You may not think you have a purpose anymore, but none of us really do. Our lives are what we make of them.”
I don’t respond. His words feel like heresy, something I’ve never heard another clone say. Yet his conviction, his certainty, stirs something inside me. A flicker of hope.
Or maybe something darker.
Even as I prepare to leave, a part of me wants to stay, to linger in the odd comfort of this strange crew. But that’s a luxury I can’t afford.
Once we land, I offer them a nod, a brief, silent acknowledgment, and turn away. His words echo in my mind as I walk away, a whisper that lingers longer than I want to admit.
I change my form regularly, fitting in to whatever district I move through, and I survive well enough for a clone with one arm and a ruined face.
Until the Parthiastocks arrest me.
A soft whisper jolts me out of my thoughts. I didn’t even realize I’d drifted, leaning against the cold metal wall, and I scramble upright, heart pounding. I'd been still for so long Gerharm's torch had even gone into standby mode.
"Arture?"
Nic-coal's silhouette stands in the doorway, a faint shadow in the darkness. The way she hesitates outside the med room makes my throat clench.
Like she’s afraid of me.
A well of hatred surges up inside me. Why shouldn't she be afraid? I stole her away from her home, her friends, her life.
“Don't be scared,” I try.
She clears her throat, her voice wavering. "I'm not. But, um, Arture? It’s really cold, and… I can’t sleep. I was wondering, the offer you made earlier… is it still open?"
“Yes!” The word bursts from me, relief flooding after. She’s not afraid.
This woman has compassion. She doesn’t just survive, she keeps giving chance after chance, again and again, to a clone. Someone who doesn’t deserve it.
I follow her into the bedroom. The air is frigid, our breath forming soft clouds that linger in the dim light. She trembles with each step, her teeth chattering loud enough to echo off the walls.
I settle onto the bed first, keeping carefully to one side, and she slips under the covers on the other.
“No… funny business… okay?” she stammers through her shivers.
"I wouldn’t dare." I stretch my arms behind my head, feigning nonchalance. "Besides, you probably have three bottles of sedative stashed under your pillow."
She lets out a soft laugh, turning onto her side with her back to me. "Yep."
I crank up my metabolism, turning my body into a furnace, and soon the warmth pulses through me, filling the bed with heat. Nic-coal lets out a contented sigh, her whole body relaxing and her shivering quieting.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a breath.
“Of course.” I listen as her breathing evens out, her presence steady beside me in the dark.
And then, without meaning to, I find myself speaking softly into the silence. "I remembered something else."
She makes a small noise, already half asleep. "Mm?"
"I left Ilia and the others." My voice is quiet, almost hesitant. "I… couldn’t stay with them. I didn’t understand the warmth there. It felt strange, wrong. Like something illegal, something I shouldn’t have. They made me… happy."
Happiness. It feels absurd to say it. I’ve never had a word for the feeling that blossomed inside me, something bright and soft, a warmth that had nothing to do with my metabolism.
Ilia’s words float back to me, hauntingly clear across the years. “Life is worth living,” I repeat.
I glance over at Nic-coal. She’s already asleep, her breathing deep and steady, the faintest hint of a smile on her face as she curls beneath the covers. She’s soothed, safe. In spite of me, or because of me?
"Maybe," I whisper into the dark, "just maybe, I can make a life worth living."
The thought is a spark, a fragile flame of hope… until searing pain ignites at the base of my skull.
I gasp, clenching my teeth to stifle a cry as the agony radiates through me, relentless, an unyielding reminder of my orders. When it finally fades, I’m left panting, my vision swimming.
Of course. Freedom isn’t for me. I can’t even entertain the thought of something more. My place is with Samara. Serving. Following orders.
I can't have more.