Chapter 20 #2
The ship jolts and shudders as it slices through the upper atmosphere, each dip and bump rattling me in my seat.
Blood Feather nickers, and I soothe him with a click of my tongue.
If only it was as easy to calm myself. Beneath us as we speed lower and lower, I catch glimpses of Oloria’s surface—and its scars.
We soar over sprawling deserts, past the skeletons of long-abandoned cities crumbling and draped in dust, fragments of metal and stone barely visible among the sand.
There’s no wilderness, no animals. No life. What am I doing here?
The ship dips lower, skimming close to the top of metal skyscrapers. A colossal tree looms in the distance, its branches stretching across the sky like an ancient giant. Phew, some life. Arture leans and the ship heads for it. He’s muttering numbers like a mantra, or a prayer.
“Are we going to Samara?”
He flinches, raising his voice. “Current altitude 3,000 feet, heading 215 degrees, airspeed 150 knots.”
I stroke Blood Feather’s mane, my own way of regulating. “Please. If you need help, tell me.”
Our silence is interrupted by a sharp crackle, and a voice fills the cockpit, speaking a language I can’t understand.
Arture’s fingers flicker across the controls as he responds in the same lilting, alien tongue, his tone even and confident.
The voice replies, probably granting us access, and he guides the ship down over rows and rows of neat, large compounds with tall stone walls.
He heads toward a gleaming silver one, guiding the ship over it and then easing straight down like a helicopter.
The landing is smoother but there’s a final, heavy thud as the ship settles, and silence fills the cockpit as we come to rest within Oloria’s embrace.
“Well,” I say, breaking it. “We're here. What now?”
Arture's hands still grip the yoke.
“Arture?”
He doesn't respond, eyes locked forward, sweat streaming down his brow. His body language screams he needs help, now.
Shit, he’s in pain. I fumble with my straps, trying to get free as quickly as I can.
The door to the ship shifts, changing, rattling to the floor and morphing into the gangplank to the world outside.
Two Pranastocks come in, long legged pilots who are the twins of Arture's current form. They glance at me and then down at the floor as they approach, but one raises his eyes slowly as he approaches me, as if he's daring himself to look in my eyes.
“Esteemed female, welcome to Oloria,” he says in English, with a perfect British accent.
Great, another place we've influenced.
“Hi, nice to meet you, but the pilot needs help, can you get me loose so I can…” I don't even know what I can do for Arture, but I have to help.
The other Pranastock goes to him and unbuckles his straps. As soon as he's free, Arture gets up and, without another glance at me, marches straight out the door into blazing light.
What the fuck?
“Where are you going?” I yell after him, and the part of my thoughts where Logan lurks smirks at me, even as it hurts. Arture played me, and I let him.
No. I rip at my restraints. My gut is never wrong. I can't tell whether I hurt more for me, or for him, but he bloody left me on a strange planet, so I'm going to transmute that hurt into being supremely pissed.
“Can you hurry up please?” I ask my Pranastock.
He redoubles his efforts getting the straps off, then helps me to my feet. “Please take some time to adjust to any changes in climate—”
“I'm cool, thanks.” I march toward the gangplank.
A figure steps inside—a woman, tall and imposing. Silver embroidered see-through silk robes wrap around her, and her tiny scales gleam like pearls on her collarbone and long, sculpted arms.
“Who are you?” I say. Yes, it's rude, but if this is Samara, she deserves more than a curt greeting.
“My name is Shara. Welcome, human of Earth.”
Ah. The All-Mother. Arture brought me here rather than to Samara. That has to mean something.
Several other clones follow her up the gangplank confirming who she is, and I find myself practically surrounded by bare chests bursting with muscle.
I see an Ilia type, a couple of the triplets, and more I can't name.
They all carry themselves with the confidence of people who know exactly where they belong, and they meet my gaze with interest rather than fear.
“Welcome, human,” they say.
“Hi.” I'm suddenly shy surrounded by half naked gorgeous men in scales, but I crane my neck around them to try to see Arture.
No matter what form he's wearing, his metal arm and eye are hard to miss… except he’s camouflaging them now with his own stripped scales.
“Did you see a Pranastock leave here? Where'd he go?”
“Yes, and he went straight out, heading back to the city,” the Ilia clone, a Gerverstock, says. He frowns at the state of the lounge and kitchen, gaping at Greharm's salvage machines stacked to one side. “What happened here?”
“We got attacked by a Nexas, managed to escape, ran out of food and fuel, just about made it to a planet, and had to dig to victory to refuel it.” I count on my fingers.
Shara's scales go ghost white. “You poor thing.”
“Yeah, well. I'm here now.”
“You’re very welcome here. You've come just at the right time, ready for the inaugural mating games especially for the clones. Let's get you settled, and tell me: why have you come? Do you have a particular problem you need help with?”
“No,” I say with a scowl. “Arture had orders to bring me here.”
The so-called All-Mother’s eyebrows twitch together in a frown. “Orders?”
“More like a compulsion. It was killing him to resist.” I can't help glaring at her, even though she's probably not responsible. Probably. “He got those orders from Samara.”
“My sister?” Now her perfect brows knit together. “I don't know when my sister would have given orders to a… Pranastock, wasn't it?”
“No, he's a different type of clone, made by Samara herself.”
All the clones turn and stare openly at me.
Shara’s perfect brow creases briefly with a frown, and she lets out a small hollow laugh. “My sister had nothing to do with clone development, creation, incubation, or raising.”
“Well, she did, because she raised Arture. He can change to be any type of clone.”
“Do you mean change scale color? All the clones can shift colors across a broad spectrum, just like any Olorian. Please demonstrate, Juran.”
One of the tall aliens turns to face the All-Mother. He’s slim like a dancer, still muscled but leaner than the Gerverstocks. Shimmering like oil on water, his silvery scales look soft, like suede melted into silk. His color shifts: storm cloud gray to pale lavender, like he’s embarrassed.
I dig my nails into my palms. “No, it's not that. Arture can change his body shape, size and abilities. He can look like any of the clones here.”
Shara purses her lips briefly. “I wasn't aware of my sister having a passing interest in genetic modulation, let alone enough to develop something like that.”
“Then she probably hired someone. But the fact is, he exists, and there's probably more like him, walking among the others.”
Now Shara’s face turns cold. “What are you suggesting?”
“That at best, your sister forgot to tell you at the family get together that she's got a new hobby.”
She draws back. “None of this makes sense. All my eggs are accounted for, and Samara has plenty of children of her own, she hasn't… hasn't had the same procedure I did.”
“Worth a phone call, though, right?”
Shara adjusts the fabric at her collarbones, her fingers lingering as if she's stalling. “And say what? That we might have stumbled upon a potential new clone type? That could backfire. My sister might see it as evidence that we lack control over the program.”
I blink in surprise. “But… why won’t you at least ask?”
She sighs, her shoulders dropping. “Because… we’re on the brink of something monumental.
We’re so close to launching the first mating games specifically for clones, a major step forward in how they’re perceived and accepted here.
I’ve had to fight for every inch of this progress, and I can’t risk upsetting my sister or undermining the delicate balance we've managed to achieve. It’s taken so much to convince her that clones deserve more, that they should be seen as more than tools. ”
Her gaze turns distant for a moment, as though recalling all the battles she’s waged to reach this point.
“My sister doesn’t have the resources or the capability to create clones herself, and I keep a close watch on all the major clone scientists, whether they support or oppose clone rights.
She's finally allowing them to have their own Mating Games. We can't take that from them.”
She doesn't want to rock the boat. I can see why, she's so close to something she's fought for.
Maybe my gut is wrong. Maybe I should give it a rest, I’ve done my due diligence and told the people in charge.
But I’m nutty Nicole when my gut says no. I take on the really fucked horses and bring them back. I'll just have to get help elsewhere.
The new clone she called Juran still stares at us, his scales turning a dark green-purple as he flexes his fists.
Shara spots my gaze. “Have you seen a Lautostock before? There isn’t one amongst the exiles who landed on Earth.”
“No, and Arture didn’t turn into one either.” He called them useless. Rather harsh.
Shara beckons to him, and the poor guy comes forward, gaze pinned to the floor. “I named Juran myself. As with all clones, he’s very loyal. His unique skills include neutralizing even the most dangerous industrial hazards, and he can absorb toxins through his scales.”
“That’s… nice.” Why do I think she’s trying to set me up?
Reading his body language, he seems unsure. He meets my eyes, his face as serious as Ilia's can be. Then, he gives me a small nod.
Maybe he's an ally.
“Can you go get Arture? Bring him back?” I ask Shara. “Once we talk to him, then you’ll see.”
“I’m sure he’ll return. Pranastocks have calibration needs, otherwise they get uncomfortable.”
I dig my nails into my palms as Shara motions to me, her beaming smile back in place. “Come, let's get you settled in. And I've been so remiss, I haven't even asked your name.”
“Nicole.” It should be nice to get off this ship, to see beyond the same four walls of my room, but as Shara leads me outside, I can’t shake the ache in my chest. Something vital has been lost, left behind on this journey.
As she walks and talks, I take in my surroundings. Shara’s compound glimmers with polished silver and pearl-white materials that gleam softly under Oloria's sunny skies. The walls curve in gentle, organic shapes, creating a sense of flow and harmony.
The space is alive with activity, women and clones working side by side.
A cluster of Parthiastocks carefully arrange a vibrant mural, each clone holding a brush or palette with careful precision as they paint a stunning scene of towering trees and majestic cities.
Each clone moves in perfect harmony, synchronizing their movements as though choreographed.
In another area, Gerverstocks lift heavy beams, carrying building materials across the compound to add support to one of the expansive arched ceilings. They place each piece at the instruction of a supervising woman, who grins at a task well done.
Nearby, a group of dark green muscular clones tend to a lush indoor garden. Their gentle hands coax the blooms to life, pruning and watering the plants with tender care. The air is filled with the scent of alien flowers, vibrant petals in shades of purple, blue, and silver.
I can see why she’s thrilled to no longer have to claw and scrape for every inch of progress, constantly fighting to gain just a little more acceptance for clones.
I tune back in just as Shara gushes, “...and of course you’ll attend the games—”
“Will I?” My tone comes out sharp. I’d thought I wanted to go straight home, but the idea of leaving Arture here unsettles me. Still, I’m not exactly eager to watch whatever these ‘games’ entail. The thought of watching people hurt each other makes my stomach churn.
“It would be an honor,” Juran says, his voice a deep, resonant rumble. “Humans from Earth have helped our society see clones in a new light. Your presence would inspire every clone to strive for their best ranking. I know… I’ll fight hard in the hopes I catch your interest.”
A compliment like that could easily go to a girl’s head, but my heart feels too bruised to fully absorb it. The truth is, I’m still reeling, still aching—not just for myself, but for Arture.
And the worst part? I still can’t figure out if the pain is more for my own heartbreak… or for his.