Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
ARTURE
I wish I had the courage to rip my own hearts out. It would hurt less than this.
As soon as I get out of sight, I shift into a Parthiastock, forcing myself not to scan the minds behind me.
I don’t want to hear her misplaced hurt for me.
I deserve her hatred, not her understanding, but knowing her, she’s full of the latter.
At least she’s safe. Me, though, I’m fucked, and not in a good way.
I listen to the snatches around me, heading toward Samara’s compound. Each step thuds loud in my head, as if I’m railing against the prison of my own mind. Each step takes me further and further away from Nic-coal, to a place I can’t come back from.
Because this is it. I’ve fulfilled whatever mission Samara carved into me with her code word, set so deep I can’t even recall the reason why, if I was ever privy to it. I’ve served my purpose. Perhaps she’ll just kill me.
I hope she does.
Leaving Nic-coal at the All-Mother's compound was the hardest thing I'd ever done. Nearly impossible, almost as impossible as disobeying orders.
I stop dead in the street, legs unable to move with the thundering realization crashing onto me.
I'd followed my orders, yes, and brought a female to Oloria. Now I was fulfilling the other part, returning to Samara. When Nic-coal asked if the All-Mother could help, I'd managed to keep my orders separate, and deliver Nic-coal to the All-Mother's compound rather than take her to Samara's.
It's a loophole.
My mind pounds like someone driving a spike through the back of my head even thinking about searching for ways out of my orders. Vision narrowing, I sway to one side, making clones scatter out of my way. I have to see Samara. I have to.
But… what if I make sure I'm being considerate? Samara's busy being the best Prif Oloria has ever seen. She won't want to be interrupted by her imperfect clone. It’d be better for her if I slip in undetected, physically put eyes on her, and then leave, so her day isn't sullied by seeing me.
The pounding in my head subsides. Yes. Perfect.
I race to do just that.
The entrance to Samara's compound is heavily guarded, but I'm a Samarastock, I can get over high walls. Using the strength of my metal arm to scale up to the roof, I haul myself up and onto the walkway. The sleeve of scraped scales tugs free. I tuck the edges in; I’ll have to fix it later.
Once on the roof, I shift into a Parthiastock, my mind sharpening and stretching to sense lifeforms nearby.
Pushing myself, I can scan the whole compound.
Samara's in her office, and surrounding her are the slippery minds of Samarastock clones, alternately flashing golden and then going completely dark, unreadable.
Silently, I move closer, positioning myself opposite the roof and shifting into a Gerverstock.
Coiling my legs underneath me, I prepare to make the jump, then launch forward.
In midair I shift into a Selthiastock, the lightest clone with a strong grip strength, and catch the edge of the ledge.
Pulling myself up, I roll onto the roof and catch my breath.
Nearly there.
I prowl to the roof above Samara's office. All the floor to ceiling windows are open to invite a breeze into her workspace. I crawl to the edge and hang over slowly, inch by inch, until I can see the glimmer of her golden robes.
She's working at her desk, tapping furiously at a screen hovering in midair. When I catch sight of her, it’s like a physical weight lifts from my chest, and the pressure in my head loosens.
My orders fall away, completed, granting me a reprieve.
I’m free. Free at last. I take a deep breath, the air tasting sweet.
But the more I stare, the more her image swells to fill my vision. Still the epitome of perfection, the Prif exudes majesty and—
I shake my head, but the thumping starts, and I quickly sit up to break my line of sight. I can't completely break free of my conditioning—even thinking about trying makes my head pound—so I should go. In case I bother the Prif in some accidental way, of course.
I crawl back to where I jumped from the wall to the roof, but a pair of what look like Parthiastocks patrol the top. They'll see me in seconds.
Diverting to the other side of the roof, I lay flat against it, scanning the rest of the wall for guards. Slowly I make my way round, but now I'm above the barracks, where the Samarastocks live. Underneath is a rustle as clones change their clothes and scales.
Two come out, talking as they take the path towards the perimeter of the house. “Orders from Samara are to win the games, disguised as one of the other types. What are you going to pick?” one clone says to another.
He snorts. “That'll be too easy. We are the superior clones, after all.”
Urgh. We’re such overconfident assholes.
“Of course, but she told us to make sure we have an even spread of Tubers, blend in with the competitors.” The first clone sounds like he's fretting.
His ‘friend’ picks up on it. “If you're so concerned with the mathematics of it, maybe you should be the Pranastock.”
Definitely an asshole.
Asshole Clone says, “I've never seen a human before. I hear they're scaleless.”
Immediately I follow them, stalking on silent feet on the roof above them.
“Well, get up to the podium as Samara ordered, and you will. Perhaps it'll choose you, if it survives.”
It? Are they talking about Nic-coal in that way? She’s the only human on the planet, surely. Now both of them are assholes.
“Still, apparently it looks female. I don't know if I can… you know. Our orders.”
“Humans are far too sympathetic to the Tubers to be real females. Samara said so, therefore it's true.”
Anger flares in my chest, hotter than anything I’ve felt before. What did they mean, if she survives? Why wouldn't she?
My hearts thump. Nic-coal’s being paraded in the games, but there are Samarastocks planning to infiltrate with orders even they're uncomfortable with.
They've been told to consider her as inferior, an imperfect female, when that's the furthest from the truth.
Nic-coal's compassion is second only to her aim with the sedative.
I force myself to breathe, to think. I can't go against Samara, but at least she hasn't ordered me to do anything specific. Can I go back to Nic-coal and mention the Samarastocks are infiltrating on the Prif’s orders?
Blinding pain makes me clench my jaw in my hands. Drok-fucking-na, that's a no.
But I can be near her. I can protect her. Nic-coal is a female—a beautiful, divine specimen of femininity, strong, supportive, challenging and insightful, and I can't allow a female to come to harm. That's baked into me even deeper than Samara's word.
I need to get to Nic-coal.
Now I have a purpose, my muscles blaze with energy.
I could make an attempt to reach the All-Mother’s compound, but with my chip, it’s only a matter of time before I’m scanned somewhere and detected.
Parthiastocks will be alerted that I’ve returned from exile and I’ll be arrested and euthanized before I can say ‘long time no see.’
No. I need a different chip.
My muscles tense as I weigh my options, but I don’t have long to think. Asshole’s friend goes inside, and Asshole himself turns to a window and admires his reflection.
When I drop down behind him, he spins round. “What are you doing up there?” he barks, then his lips curl in disgust when he sees my mechanical arm.
It’s intensely satisfying to use my imperfect arm to shove his back to the wall, pressing the metal of my forearm against his throat. “I need a favor. But first, what are your orders for the female?”
“What female?” he squeaks. His eyes widen as I press harder, almost bulging. “Al-fa,” he wheezes. “It’s you.”
“I don’t know who you mean. Don't make me repeat myself.”
His lips thin and I lean my full weight into his neck. Yeah, maybe a bit much, but he talked shit about Nic-coal, and he's prettier than me.
He scrabbles against my chest, trying to shove me back or get his knees up to kick. Leaning closer, I get my face into his rapidly reddening one.
“I'm waiting,” I point out, stepping back a little.
“I don't… know… who you mean,” he pants.
“The female human. The one you were discussing with the other asshole me.”
He frowns at my vulgar Earth vernacular. “Ass… Never mind. The human, it's no female. Samara said so. They bond with Parthiastocks, Selthiastocks, and Gerverstocks.” His arrogant lip curls with disdain. “Not a true female.”
This is ludicrous. If I were to hear Samara say these words, proclaim this as truth, the lie would be branded into me, too.
“She is a female. A good, kind, loving female,” I hiss. “What's Samara planning for her? Why did she tell you that?”
He gives me a look like ‘how should I know.’ It's useless to interrogate the clone, he won't be privy to Samara's plots.
But he can be useful in other ways.
“Now, about that favor.” Reaching into my pants pocket, my fingers curl around the sedative I’d hidden there. I grin, teeth bared.
The stolen chip rattles like a loose bolt in my right arm underneath the scale sleeve.
I left the unfortunate clone where he would be found eventually, knocked out and unaware of what I’d taken.
No time to dwell on it. My new goal is clear, and the new chip has granted me a chance to reach Nic-coal.
I run to the All-Mother’s compound, scanning my chip on entry. But it's empty, no one about. The ship is abandoned, attached to a water supply and left to its own devices to refuel.
Where would they all disappear to? My hands, organic and metal, ball into aching fists. Nic-coal needs to leave, what did I bring her into? The Prif would never hurt a female, but she doesn’t consider humans to be females. It makes me feel physically sick.
Nic-coal was right.
An explosion in the town makes me jerk, but it's only celebratory fireworks bursting silver sparks over the city. Those are let off at the start of the mating games.
Of course, they’ve started, and the All-Mother would be head of the procession.
My pulse quickens, panic stirring beneath my ribs.
Nic-coal's probably with her and they’re already out there, vulnerable, unprotected, and surrounded by hidden Samarastocks with an equally hidden agenda.
I should have stayed with her, I wish I could’ve, but my orders had constantly driven me on until I was mentally flayed.
Now they’ve eased, and I can fix on one thing: protecting all females.
I don’t waste a second. I sprint toward the city center, the sound of distant fanfare guiding me as I dodge through streets crowded with hopeful clones.
As I draw closer, the celebratory atmosphere thickens.
Lights flash, music thrums, and the air is electric with excitement.
Clones are cheering, clapping, laughing—the city is alive with joy, a festival of unity.
Everyone but me.
I shift into a Gerverstock form, broad and solid, the form best suited to pushing through this crowd. My larger frame parts the mass of bodies as I press forward, eyes scanning for Nic-coal, desperate for even a glimpse of her.
And then I see her—up on a raised plinth, elevated above the throng.
She’s dressed in Olorian finery, the delicate fabrics draped around her shoulders catching the light.
She looks beautiful, radiant even, as if she belongs here, except for the distant look on her face. Her heart belongs on another planet.
I push forward, my path blocked by security Parthiastocks. When I try to step past them, they close ranks, a solid wall of muscle.
“Let me through,” I shout, my voice barely audible above the cheers of the crowd. “A female is in danger! Let me—”
Before I can shout again, she’s ushered into a sleek vehicle waiting at the base of the plinth.
I watch, helpless, as she steps inside, her shoulders slumped in a way that stabs at me.
The car pulls away, gliding through the parting crowd.
My thundering hearts sink, the weight of failure pressing down on me.
But I can’t give up. I won’t. With a snarl, I surge forward, blending into the throng of hopeful clones who have started to give chase, all of us charging after the vehicle as it weaves through the streets.
This is the start of the Mating Games. My muscles burn, my mind races, and all I can think of is reaching her and making sure she gets home.
She’ll get home safely while I draw breath, even if it costs me everything.