Chapter 22 #2
Finally, I get close to the edge of the running track that’s been set out for the competing clones. There’s a barrier of plasglass between us and the buildings, probably to prevent clones from getting confused and trying to climb the structures first. Nic-coal’s heading in there.
“Nic-coal,” I shout. She doesn’t react, and I slam a fist against the glass.
“What are you doing?” A Parthiastock grabs my forearm before I can punch it again. His eyes narrow. “You’re supposed to be running. Are you trying to cheat?”
I can’t tell if he’s scouring my thoughts, but my instincts to protect Samara’s secrets take over. I project I’m nothing but a determined Gerverstock, desperate to find his own mate for a new adventure.
The Parthiastock lets me go. “Come on. We’re in the top ten per cent, don’t lose focus and miss out.”
My hearts leap.
The podium. I overheard the Samarastocks mentioning it, because if they, or I, can earn a place on the podium, I’ll be close enough to ensure Nic-coal’s safety, to protect her if something happens.
“Yes,” I cheer. “Let’s go.”
The Parthiastock salutes and sprints away, and this time I join the sea of clones willingly.
My body protests, though every muscle aches from weeks of shifting, revelations, realizations and survival.
My hearts beat far too hard under the strain of holding this Gerverstock form, their rhythm faltering with every passing second.
I’m tired, more tired than I’ve ever been.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the thought steady me. Whatever it takes, whatever I have to endure, I will make it to her. Because Nic-coal is more than a mission.
She’s the only thing keeping me going.
NICOLE
Samara’s invited me to a party up in the knife-skyscraper, and I’m way out of my depth.
The best I can do is a night in with the girls, watching movies with a bottle of red, showing off the pockets in our hoodies.
Ellen usually falls asleep first, then it’s Laura, then me, and Arabella always has a mischievous glint in her eye when she rouses us once the movie’s finished.
Usually because she’s drawn on us with eyeshadow while we were zonked.
At the All-Mother’s compound, I showered the smell of the ship off me and shucked off the pants Arture made, throwing them into a corner of the room and startling Blood Feather.
“Sorry, boy,” I had crooned to him as he pranced, flailing his hooves in the air.
He only settled when I entered the bath and he came too, to inspect it.
By the time I came out there were fresh robes in silver laid out for me and the clothes Arture had made for me were gone.
Another piece left behind. This place is so different. What am I doing here?
This party is movie-star awards night glamor.
Alien females moving gracefully, their rainbow-colored scales catching the glow of chandeliers, while their intricate gowns, woven with shimmering threads of unknown origin, cascade like liquid starlight.
Avant-garde hairstyles, spiraling, floating, and adorned with delicate crystals, make them appear as living works of art all around me.
All these females are drop dead gorgeous, and meanwhile I’m fidgeting in my borrowed wraps, trying to subtly work out whether I’m flashing a boob or two, and adjusting the heavy translation headphones Shara lent me.
Blood Feather nickers in my hands before launching into the air, snapping his wings open. The women coo in delight, but I can’t help noticing the covetous glances thrown his way. I open my hands and he soars over to land, prancing and snorting.
A female with white-blonde hair and silver-rainbow scales comes over to me.
Her gown flows like liquid moonlight, crafted from a sheer, pearlescent fabric that shifts with delicate hues of silver, and she has two male attendants, both completely different from each other and from any of the clones I’ve met so far. I wonder if these are True Born sons.
“Hello, human. Is this a specimen from Earth?”
“No, he’s not from Earth.” I need more liquid courage for small talk. I snag a glass of something tall and bubbly from a table but, sniffing it, I get a burst of sickly-sweet berry. Yuck.
“Then where is he from? Do they come in other colors?”
My smile fixes. I’ve dealt with this sort of person before: someone who thinks a horse makes a great accessory rather than a companion who needs a lot of attention.
Blood Feather tosses his mane, peering up at the curious female. I explain, “There’s many adaptations to the Equeleus species. They need a specialized diet and a great deal of personal work.”
She clicks her fingers at one of her guys, and he focuses on me as if he’s memorizing every word for her.
I shift my weight, fighting the urge to wrap Blood Feather in my fingers to hide him.
It’s clear these females are used to getting exactly what they want.
I don’t want to start a craze for Equeleus and have their planet ransacked, and it also doesn’t feel good for the clones outside vying for their attention.
Does she think they’re just a fashion accessory, too?
“Excuse me, but I need to attend to Blood Feather’s needs.” I put the glass back down without taking a sip.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, he hasn’t taken a dump in a while. I fully expect him to sprinkle the gathering with some manure.”
The scales on her cheeks go pale pastel green. “I see. Well, farewell, human.”
I make my way to where I saw Shara last. As I walk through throngs of women and their towering True Born mates bursting with muscle, I catch carefully crafted looks at me. Whispers exchanged between friends in their guttural language spread in my wake like the ripples behind a hunting crocodile.
The All-Mother lounges with her friends, surrounded by her inner circle, their laughter light and easy. She waves me over, a bright, welcoming smile on her face. “Everything to your liking, Nic-coal?”
“I, uh, I’d actually like to go somewhere quiet. I’m pretty tired,” I lie. Probably won’t get any sleep, but I’m getting a mad culture shock, and still rocked from Arture’s sudden exit from my life. I need some time to adjust and lick my wounds.
Shara’s face softens. “Of course. I’ve ordered a room prepared for you in my penthouse suite. Would you like me to show you?”
“Just give me directions; I don’t want to take you from your party.” Because her body language is screaming that she’s been waiting so long for this, she wants to soak up every second.
Her eyes warm despite being a cold silver color. “Thank you, Nic-coal.”
Taking her directions, I leave the laughter and chatter behind, stepping into the towering stone and metal halls of this skyscraper.
The elevators aren’t confined in a shaft, they’re little pods hovering in a big open central space that goes all the way to the bottom.
It’s already a hideous distance, and I crane my neck to try to see the top.
Fortunately, it’s only ten or so more floors, but I’d hate to have to climb up this building, and without any harness whatsoever.
Fuck that for a game of soldiers; getting a girlfriend isn’t worth that kind of effort.
But what if a guy did have to go through all this to prove themselves worthy? A flash of heat surges through me. Shara’s right, there’s something primal in our genetic hardcoding that makes the prospect fucking hot.
“Stupid body.” I step into an elevator and it takes me up to the highest level.
Doors open on our approach and the pod slides right in, opening and waiting patiently for me to exit.
The All-Mother’s apartment is all metal and gleaming surfaces like her ship, clean lines, open space, and just the right balance of warmth and function.
I scuff the wooden floors with my soft shoes, finding them smooth as barn planks underfoot, and the wide windows let in a flood of natural light, as if the walls themselves wanted to be part of the outdoors.
There’s a long, low couch in pale grey stone tones, and the kitchen’s minimalist counters gleam like polished tack.
It’s not rustic at all, but there’s a quiet practicality to the space, like everything has its place and purpose, that reminds me of a stable. It makes my shoulders loosen.
I squint down at the sweeping panorama of the oasis below.
It’s green and alive, sheltered by the curved, protective stone walls.
Other buildings underneath appear to have emerged from the rock, and the insides overflow with plant life.
Below cluster broad-leafed plants that look suspiciously like banana trees, with fat green bunches of fruit hanging down.
Clambering up them are the clone competitors, completing the physical challenge day like their lives depend on it.
Climbing ropes dangle outside the windows, long enough to trail all the way down to the lower levels, thrumming as someone climbs them.
Shit, they’re actually doing it. I press my face to the glass-like windows to try and see directly below, finding them as warm as Arture’s chest scales. Tears prick my eyes.
Bastard. I hope he’s okay.
I look around for a place to sit for a bit, poking at the walls. Shara said my room was behind a door which would slide open when I approached, but I feel like a tourist in King’s Cross station trying to tentatively ram the walls to find Platform 9 and ?.
Blood Feather is no help, sniffing around on the kitchen floor and galloping along the wood before bucking with excitement.
“Like how your hooves echo?” I grin at the tiny stallion.
A loud bang on the window startles us, Blood Feather whinnying with alarm. I look up, heart hammering.
Arture clings to a rope outside. He’s in an Ilia form, scales on his muscles rippled with red as if his blood vessels are popping out. Which they might well be, because he’s climbed all the way up the side of the building using a single rope.