Chapter 27 #2
Good. At least they'll be safe.
I smile, a humorless curve of my lips. “You want me? You’ll have to carry me.”
The Parthiastocks exchange a look, clearly debating who’ll get the dubious honor, but it also clearly demonstrates they don't have a mind sync bond to coordinate seamlessly.
One comes toward me. “Don't try to fight.”
If he were a real Parthiastock, I'd have to obey, but he isn't. The pain in my leg throbs, and if I move, I risk it healing wrong again, so I can only put up a token resistance. I let him get close, then swing my mechanical arm with everything I have. The metal slams into the Parthiastock’s chest and he stumbles back.
His supposed wave brothers don’t rush to his aid. They step back instead, their loyalty thin as the execution garrote.
The injured Parthiastock glimmers around the edges, his form shifting unnaturally until he becomes a Selthiastock for faster healing. I tut at him. That's against Samarastock rules; we can't reveal our existence to the other clones.
The Gerverstock among them slaps him. “You’d abandon your form just to save your own scales? I'll euthanize you myself.”
“They're all going to be euthanized, what does it matter?” the beleaguered Selthiastock complains.
Fury rolls off Juran’s lean muscles like heat waves as he steps in front of me. “You’re no Gerverstock! How dare you attack your own teammate?”
The false Gerverstock laughs. The other Parthiastocks shimmer and shift, their features melting into Gerverstocks and activating their rage strength. One grabs me, lifting me into the air like I weigh nothing, and tosses me across the tent.
I land hard. Drok na, it hurts so bad I nearly pass out. All I can do is roll away through the pain to avoid any follow-up attack.
The first Gerverstock stops laughing and lunges for Juran, throwing a punch meant to crumple a wall.
The cleaner clone sidesteps like liquid, and the punch hits the tent pole instead. Wood cracks and the canvas above buckles.
“Out of my way, scrubber,” the Gerverstock growls. “We came for the wounded one. Stop, or you’ll leave wounded, too.”
“If at all,” the second one says, pacing toward me.
Ezla blocks his path. My scales harden as the healer says, “You aren't who you say you are. How can I trust you truly have orders from the Prif?”
The Gerverstock heading for me snorts, brushing the shorter Ezla aside. “What can you do against us, healer?”
“He's right,” I say. “You need to—”
Ezla’s fingers dart out, scratching his assailant across the chest with a brilliant spark of green.
The Gerverstock blinks, then grins at him. “What was that… meant to…” Bending at the waist, the clone collapses to his knees, vomiting violently.
The others hesitate, glancing at each other. The first reaches for Juran, snatching him around the throat. “Well, cleaner? Any surprises for us?”
Juran paws at the fist clenching his windpipe… and grins. He slides down out of the clone's grip, leaving his attacker holding only silver scales.
Landing on his feet, Juran launches into the fake Gerverstock’s midsection, locks his arms around his waist, and heaves. The clone launches into the air, Juran throwing him as easily as they tossed me.
Whoa. Strength to rival a raging Gerverstock.
Juran’s scales darken. He turns and shoves another Gerverstock toward Ezla, who slashes him too. Two down. The final one gets to his feet, scales paling at how the two so-called weaker clones took out two Samarastocks.
He turns and flees.
“Good self-preservation at least,” I say, struggling to my feet. “They’re done.”
Juran pants, eyes glistening. “A Gerverstock would never, ever attack his own crewmate.”
I nod, but that’s all I can do.
Ezla looks between us, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on here?”
My jaw locks shut. I can’t tell either of them outright, but I do need—sigh—their help.
Juran explains, “There are clone types who can take on the form of others. Nic-coal said they belong to Samara.”
The war inside me ignites, roaring to life. The urge to silence them—to stop them from speaking another word—chokes me. I hold onto the fact that I don’t have orders, not direct ones, and refrain from attacking them.
Ezla’s eyebrows raise. “I've never heard of a clone being able to change their type, let alone access their unique abilities, but I saw those Parthiastocks change and use Gerverstock strength. That's… incredible.”
“Incredibly dangerous,” Juran adds with a scowl.
Ezla nods slowly, his gaze hardening. “Then we need to identify if there are any others,” he says. He gestures toward the collapsed clones. “These have abnormally high heart rates. That's likely an indicator.”
Then the healer turns to me, face stiff. “You also have an abnormally high heart rate.”
I tense.
Juran nods. “I suspect he's one of them, but he saved me and he tried to warn me about the others. I think he can't reveal everything, he might be bound or prevented from talking about it openly somehow.”
For a Lautostock, he's doing a great Gerverstock impression: smart as well as fearless when protecting their own.
Ezla frowns. “Working with such an unknown introduces intolerable risk.”
“But if he can’t say anything—”
“That could be a convenient subterfuge.”
My fists curl into the plasteek cover of the bunk, making the material squeak in my deathrgrip. Ezla’s right to be suspicious of me and my motives, but I cannot tell them.
Out loud, anyway.
“Is there a private area here?” I blurt. “Somewhere without cameras.”
Ezla blinks slowly, pointing to the back of the empty tent at a flap. “There’s a santized area for field surgeries. It doesn’t have cameras or audio equipment.”
“Great.” I close my eyes. “Examine my leg. Tell me what the prognosis is.”
No doubt confused by the change of subject, Ezla complies slowly, conducting a thorough examination.
The tightness of his lips give it away before he says, “With all the excitement, it’ll need to be rebroken.
I’ve overclocked your nanites as much as I dare to speed your healing processes, and their structural repairs will be weak enough as it is.
You cannot continue in the Games. You risk losing the limb entirely. ”
Juran takes a sharp breath. That would be a horrible pronouncement for an ordinary clone, especially in the first ever Games for us.
“But if I were a Selthiastock, like you?” I ask. I know the answer.
Ezla’s frown returns, burrowing into his brow. “Then your inherent abilities would assist the nanites in their work, shoring up their repair structures. Your leg would be indistinguishable from another, undamaged Selthiastock’s leg in mere heartbeats.”
I roll off the bunk and shuffle toward the closed flap. Neither of them follow me: they watch me take step after halting step, how my leg drags behind me. I pull myself into the room and let the flap fall behind me.
Sliding into a green Selthiastock is like pushing for the extra mile after I’ve already sprinted fifty klicks. My hearts seize, then gallop in a thundering stampede. Nic-coal Nic-coal Nic-coal Nic-coal, they seem to say.
I lean onto the plasteel surgery table, gritting my teeth as I tame my racing heartbeats.
The scent of antiseptic floods my sinuses, the unmistakable smell of multiple Selthiastocks, but I can’t pick out Juran’s scent.
Although he absorbs material, his scales slough off quicker, making him camouflaged to his local environment and quickly taking on the new aspects of another.
“I’m not in this form for that,” I admonish myself in a growl.
Focusing inward, I send all my nanites to the leg, even the ones stationed around my hearts, fixing fibers that fray and snap under all the strain of maintaining another form for so long.
Bone burns as it heals quickly, and I grip the sharp edges of the table, pressing my jaw shut to keep from screaming.
When the pain eases, I exhale. I take a few experimental steps and a hop, but my Selthiastock mind has already triaged and dismissed my leg: it’s fully functional, there’s no further work to do.
Move on to the next problem, which are my hearts.
They have no more left to give; if I can’t release this form soon, I’ll expire.
“Four turns as a Pranastock,” I mutter. “I can do this.” Still, shifting into a Gerverstock feels like dragging a boulder uphill.
Once I wear blue-purple scales again, I emerge from the tent flap to confront Ezla and Juran.
They stare at me, unmoving.
I walk up to Ezla. “Examine my leg again. You’ll find it’s optimal.”
The Selthiastock shakes his head. “I don’t need to. Not only did I smell your scent change, but…” He points wordlessly to a monitor.
A monitor showing the empty surgery room, plasteel table and all.
“Drok na,” I hiss. “You lied to me.”
“You were lying to us,” Ezla counters. “Or at least omitting the truth.”
“You are one of those shapeshifting clones,” Juran says, breathless. “But I think you’ve been programmed so you can’t speak of it.”
I can’t even reward his correct deduction with a nod. All I can do is look away.
Juran’s hand lands on my shoulder. “We need to find those other shapeshifting clones.”
I exhale, relief creeping into my chest and releasing some of the bands around it. Thank the All-Mother—ouch—I decided to work with competent clones.
“Thank you,” I whisper to them.
A klaxon goes off. As my scales harden and Ezla's go pale, a robotic announcer chirps, “Competitors, to the briefing room for the final test.”
“Final test? Now?” Juran echoes my disbelief. What shitty timing, as the humans would say.
Ripping my way out of the tent, I look for a screen to confirm what's going on. One floats above the cliff edge, streaming a map of the jungle arena.
We watch in silence at the horrors awaiting us.
The females designed the jungle at the heart of the oasis, incorporating multiple challenges and hazards along the route and letting them grow wild.
On the path, Bathurm Slowgrass lays in silver-blue patches like an icy lake.
Once stepped on, the barbs in their interconnected root system activate, and thick, hollow thorns snap out to penetrate boots and pump out a paralysis agent.
The plant then absorbs the decomposing bodies.
The only way to avoid it is to know about it, which immediately puts me at an advantage.
“They managed to grow a Bloomwitch.” Juran keeps one arm extended out to me as if to steady me should I falter. Far from terrified at the prospects we'll be facing, he sounds genuinely impressed.
“What's a Bloomwitch?” Ezla asks.
Juran points at the fluorescent plant, growing where many paths intersect. “Its nectar is a neurotoxin, fatal in seconds, and it also has explosive seed pods. I'm surprised the Hortustocks could grow it at all.”
“So that's why we've had an uptick in cases of neurotoxin poisoning,” Ezla says, folding his arms across his broad chest as he stares up at the vidscreens.
The view zooms to plants emitting clouds of spores, vines whipping down to snare prey to drag into the canopy, and thorns with spikes as thick as my arm.
The camera pans to the Xaren’s Maw, and Jaren gasps. “It's beautiful.”
“It's deadly,” I say grimly, glaring at it. “Nearly killed us when we discovered it.”
“We? You mean, you're on Ilia Gerverstock's team?” Juran spins to me with wide, adoring eyes.
“I was.” The thought sends regret slicing into me. What I wouldn't give to have my crew back for this challenge. Ilia, patiently coming up with a strategy. Dom, Arik, and Nevare coordinating seamlessly, taking the hits for us. Gara, patching us up when it all inevitably goes sideways.
Still. A Selthiastock and a Lautostock with a Gerverstock obsession are formidable allies, and an asshole like me is lucky to have any help at all.
I refocus. “The Xaren’s Maw is highly intelligent. It’s rootless and it moves. It can camouflage itself, and uses some of its petals to project an image of helpless prey to lure in predators.”
Juran nearly jumps up and down next to me. “I know! Once the prey is close, vines whip out around its meal. Then it closes the maw around its prey, and pumps in digestive enzymes.”
I shudder. “Yes, Gara had great fun reversing that.”
Ezla gives me a look. “Gara?”
But I don't have time to respond, because next the screen flashes up the locations of the females. They're safe in plasglass tubes, of course, but it still activates a deep primal instinct in my male brain to protect when I'm presented with the image of deadly plant life next to delicate females.
All three of us ball our fists. My leg is re-healing, my nanites working as fast as they can and probably doing as bad a job as the first time. I can't run into this next challenge and expect to finish, let alone find and beat the Samarastocks and win.
But the next sight makes my hearts seize.
The last image on screen is of a beautiful female tied to a stake in the center of the Xaren's Maw’s clearing. Not just any female. Nic-coal’s brown eyes look up and spear into mine, as if she's challenging me directly.
And every Samarastock still out there will target her, unless the Maw gets her first.