Chapter 22 #3
He spins his ankle until he makes a loop of rope around his foot, then another one, and leans his weight into it. Smart, that’s a neat way to take a break. Then he shouts something through the glass.
I wave back dumbly and, oh fuck, his smile. It spreads across his face, windswept hair whipping into his cheeky grin.
It’s him, it is, even though his mechanical eye and arm are camouflaged.
“Where was this attitude the past week?” I yell at him.
He starts mouthing something. “M… Me…” I try, getting closer to the window as if that’ll help me decipher him. He slides down a little so we’re eye to eye, shoulders level. Every bead of sweat glistens in the light, his arms trembling under the strain.
And shards of heartbreak glimmer in his golden-amber eyes.
I focus on his lips. His soft, commanding lips, which stroked across my nerves like a hand soothing a nervous horse. Aw, fuck, I’ve got it bad.
“Meet me… up… there,” I manage to lip read.
He nods fervently, face more serious than I’ve ever seen before, his jaw tight and his gaze fixed upward.
Maybe it’s the form he’s chosen: Gerverstocks are always so solemn, so focused.
Still, there’s something in his expression that feels different, like the weight of something much larger drives him onward.
Maybe he got free of his orders? My traitorous heart gives an excited double thump.
A shiny Lautostock, scales shimmery as sealskin, scrambles up beside him, moving quickly but less carefully. He’s climbing too fast, his footing unsteady. I watch, heart in my throat, as his hand slips from the rope and his body swings precariously.
Arture reacts instantly, reaching out with one strong arm and steadying the clone before he can fall. The cleaner clone looks shaken, clinging to the rope as he catches his breath.
Below them, another Gerverstock pauses in his climb, watching the exchange. His gaze flickers between Arture and the shaken clone, an unreadable expression on his face. Assessing, calculating, as if he's sizing them up, competitors in every sense of the word.
Arture resumes his climb with that same intense focus, but not before shooting me a sweaty grin.
It’s definitely him. He’s back. With a squeal, I spin and run to catch an elevator pod.
ARTURE
She’s there, and she’s safe for now. She also seems ready to talk, maybe even excited to see me.
Perhaps she’ll let me grovel. I force my burning arms to lift, to grab the rope, my legs to follow and grip further down.
All that shoveling made my shoulders beefier than usual, plus Gerverstock mass helps.
I squeeze the rope between my knees and stand, bringing myself that much closer to Nic-coal.
And oh, how I’ll grovel. First, I’ll get her to sit astride my face and ride me like one of her unruly horses.
I wouldn’t mind a slap of her hand or a crop either, to teach me a lesson.
The Lautostock below me lets out a low moan, squeezing his eyes shut. I peer down at him. “Cleaner, you good?”
“I… yes.” He opens his eyes slowly, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw starts trembling as badly as the rest of him.
He nearly fell earlier, and I’ve been keeping an eye on him since.
I don’t know why I reached out to steady him before.
It wasn’t strategy or survival instinct.
It just felt… right. It wasn’t a Gerverstock instinct, it was something else entirely.
Something I don’t have time to dissect, because the ropes creak, taut with the weight of competitors above and below.
“You probably shouldn’t be here,” I tell him.
He scowls at me. “Where else should I be? I can do this.”
Hm, feisty. For a cleaner.
I push onward, but a sudden tug on my left ankle jerks me to a halt. My grip tightens on the ropes as I glance down, expecting to see the Lautostock struggling again.
Instead, I meet the eyes of a predator. Cold, murderous, and entirely un-Gerverstock.
It’s a Samarastock in disguise. It has to be.
His lips curl into a snarl and, before I can react, he yanks hard, trying to pull me off the ropes. Pain shoots through my leg as his grip tightens like a vice. I kick at him with my other foot, but the ropes sway dangerously under the force of our struggle.
We can’t exactly fight, as all I can do is kick at him, my metal arm straining to keep me anchored as the Samarastock claws at my footing. He’s definitely trying to pull me off.
Well, he can try. I let my legs swing free, relying only on my shoulders and arms to hold my weight above a dizzying drop, and drive my heels into his face. Something crunches and he has to cling on or fall as he gasps for breath.
“Stop!” the Lautostock I helped shouts at my attacker. “What are you doing?”
“Thinning the herd,” the disguised Samarastock snaps, eyes flashing at me.
Does he have orders to eliminate me? Does Samara know I’m here and that I’m trying to get to Nic-coal first?
Another figure approaches from below—a Parthiastock, climbing fast. Is this one of Samara’s too, coming to aid his fellow?
Before I can decide, the hidden Samarastock barges into the younger Lautostock, slamming his shoulder into his side. The cleaner loses his grip, slipping with a startled gasp.
Without thinking, I lunge, catching his arm with my metal hand, and hold him there. “Hurry,” I gasp, stretched taut. I can’t hold him for long, it feels like my chest muscles are being torn apart like the bread rolls in Ellen’s kitchen.
He flails but then grabs hold of the ropes, arms bulging. Lautostocks are pretty strong after all. He hauls himself up and past me, his wide, startled eyes meeting mine. “My thanks,” he blurts, moving twice as fast.
“You’re welcome,” I grunt at him.
But the kindness costs me, because I forgot about the Samarastock. He used the opening to grab me by the hips, dangling from me. The weight of a whole other heavy clone rips at my already overstretched chest, back, arms and shoulders. I can’t even scream from the pain.
He plants his feet on the walls of the building and shoves so hard the rope tears from my hands.
For a split second, I’m weightless, arching away from the building and the ropes.
There's a mirror of us in the silver building, two apparent Gerverstocks.
One grapples the other, who has his mouth open in an O. That's me.
The Samarastock lets go and swings back; he'd tied himself on.
Gravity takes hold like a huge hand and yanks me down.
NICOLE
As soon as the elevator pod opens onto the roof, I'm drenched in a wave of sound. Clones mill about, sweating, talking, guzzling water, drones zipping between them getting close ups of their overworked bodies. They smile and pose for the cameras, enjoying the thrill of achievement.
As they climb up and over the edge of the building, they stagger straight over a glowing line. A big purple clone hands them a ticket, probably their place in the runnings. There's a row of females under shade, watching the clones, who shoot them longing looks.
I press my jagged nails into my palms. Arture. I need to find Arture.
As I move among them, a murmur of gossip spreads behind me, just like with the females downstairs. “A human!” gets repeated a lot in a tone close to reverence, and they're looking at me with hope as they catch their breath, as if everything they just endured was worth it.
Aw, fuck, I hate being the center of attention. Deep breaths, deep breaths.
Blood Feather rears up, scattering into the sky.
“Feather, come back.” Shit, I didn't put a lead rope on him, he's always stuck by my side. Now he’s streak of pale sandy gold chasing after a camera drone. Chest tight, I scan the scorching sky for the tiny horse.
“Female Nic-coal.” A Lautostock staggers up to me, blowing and panting. He presses his fist to his temple, looking at my feet. “It's me, Juran.”
“Oh, hi. Well done, er, but I need to catch Blood Feather.”
His serious face locks on to the rogue Equeleus. “At once. But if I may ask… have you seen a Gerverstock up here?”
My gaze scans across all the different varieties of clones, and probably forty percent of them are Gerverstocks, looking for Arture.
Juran's scales harden, seeing what I see. “Uh, I mean the one trying to get your attention, and he… he helped me when I was about to fall, and—”
“Arture. That's Arture.” I turn my head afresh, looking for that cocky grin, the sweep of his hair, even the glint of metal to give me a clue.
Juran cocks his head. “I thought you were looking for a Pranastock.”
“He can change, remember. He was a Gerverstock like you just now.”
“I see. But I… I can't find him, I… I think he might have fallen.”
The words hit like a hoof to the head. Arture fell?
I rush to the edge of the roof, gut lurching at the height. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. Please, please let him be okay.
I can't see him among the climbers.
“Blood Feather!” I yell, and the tiny stallion swoops down, perching on my shoulder with wings outspread. One brushes the back of my head like an encouraging hand urging me forward as I sprint to an elevator.
“He has to be okay,” I mutter. “He's tough, he's been through so much, he’ll be fine. He has to be. Please.”