Chapter 30
THIRTY
ARTURE
SHE NEEDS A WAR.
Support Samara. Keep her position secure, unchallenged. Present the threat of war with a foreign power.
The orders are sharp, hard as shards of blades slicing into me. I have to travel the galaxies. I have to take a female from a foreign power. I have to take her and bring her to Oloria.
And I have to kill her in full view of all the females.
I will keep Samara’s position secure, and she'll protect all Olorian females from the threat of the clones.
I am that threat.
I have to kill Nic-coal. Everyone will see a Gerverstock calmly strangling a human female to death during the finals of the mating games.
It’s what the Prif wants.
I scream internally, fighting with everything I am not to squeeze my robotic fingers into a fist and crunch her bones to paste in my palm.
She's still breathing for now, but her breaths become more rapid. Probably as she realizes how close to death she is. How close she is to me.
Her scent wraps around me, earthy and rich. Her cheeks and nose are dusted darker, still tanned from getting burned planet-side with me.
Her eyes find mine, the brown flecked with gold. They fill with tears, catching the light like tiny galaxies on the brink of collapse.
“Arture,” she whispers. “You can fight what your brain is telling you.”
I can't. My fingers twitch. I wish the plant had eaten me. She won't ever be safe with me with these horrific impulses seared into my mind. I don't have free will. I don't have freedom. I'm breaking to pieces, cracking in two, my head warring with itself.
I need to end it. I need to fulfill my ultimate purpose.
I need to obey Samara.
Nic-coal's hands close around my wrists. Cooling. Soothing. Real.
“You can do this,” Nic-coal whispers. “You want to know who you are? You’ve always been yourself. No matter what form you take, your personality shines through. She might have made you, trained you… tortured you.” Tears roll down her cheeks.
I did that to her. Another crime to add to my tally.
“But you endured,” she continues, gripping tighter. “You. Arture, you won't hurt me, not because you can't, but because you can choose not to.”
Me. It's all me. The good and the bad, every crime, every mercy. Every choice I’ve ever made.
Laughing with Nic-coal.
Locking her in a bedroom not once, but twice.
Curling up beside her to keep her warm.
Working beside her on that remote planet, digging together for a shared purpose.
Capturing her, stealing her away.
Kissing her.
Leaving her alone on Oloria, thinking she'd be safe.
Fighting my own programming to protect her. I've been thinking my way around it, trying to be a smart Samarastock. My fingers twitch, her pulse throbbing against my palm. It's a voice, a loud one, but only a voice.
There are other voices in here, too.
Ilia. Gara. Dom, Arik, Nevare.
Nic-coal. She trusted in me before I even knew who I was myself, sleeping next to me while I warmed the room. Digging beside me.
Spy. Fraud. Murderer. That's what I am.
But that's not all I am.
There's another voice inside, getting stronger. Louder.
Mine.
Yes.
I shatter through my tight throat, smashing through the silence like a raging Gerverstock fueled with righteous fury. “I'm not going to serve her anymore. She's a… a bad mistress.”
“A shitty one,” Nic-coal agrees, fingers tight around my left hand.
I ease my fists open. Every movement sends spikes deep into my head, but worse than this agony would be losing Nic-coal.
Pain blinds me. “It… hurts.”
“I'm here,” she says. “You've got this, Arture. You can beat her. You can—”
Override.
My robotic right fist tightens, thankfully on air. I stagger back, pain crackling through my skull. My right arm reaches, straining, for Nic-coal. Pain shoots across my body, worse in the broken leg.
Ezla whisks her back, putting himself between me and her, and Juran plants himself in my way. “Arture, stop what you're doing.”
“I… am.” I get to my knees. “But something’s wrong with my arm.”
He frowns at it, and I rip down the covering, pulling the waterproof material inside out over my flailing fist. He gasps at the bands of metal making up my limb.
It surges, transforms, and cuts through the material, slicing upwards through the air.
Juran hops back, scales storm gray. “Arture, what are you?”
“A…” I can say it. It's just a word. I spit out, “A Samarastock. A spy. And if I don't get this under control, you have to kill me.”
Juran bunches his fists. Nic-coal cries, “Don't, no, he doesn't want to hurt us.”
This disobedience is so new, so untested. I can't rely on it and yet, I can't fail. Sweat drenched my scales.
“Find the source, Arture,” Nic-coal coaxes. “It all leads back to the Prif. You're stronger than you realize.”
Strength. I only have that as a Gerverstock… but no, each clone type has unique strengths, not always to do with the physical.
I block off the pain flaring into hot agony in my head, shoving it back with a mental shield like a Parthiastock.
Now I’m trapped behind it, but at least I have space to think.
Where is the pain coming from? It seems to radiate from everywhere, but that can’t be true.
And I know which clone is the best at finding something nebulous.
With a deep breath, I bring in the Pranastock. Equations crash over me like a shower of meteors: Nic-coal stands one-point right units to the orbital spin away from me, and even that meager distance is too much.
I force myself to focus on the center of pain, triangulating the origin based on how quickly each part of my brain throbs with each beat of pain. It radiates from my right eye, the mechanical one.
Of course. I didn't need to be a Pranastock to work that out.
With a quick breath to brace myself, I plunge my metal fingers into my right eye, crushing the cameras, chips, circuits and wires within. I brace for agonizing pain, but in comparison, this is a light throb. My right arm hangs limp at my side before it reboots, bands rippling in a wave.
Their mouths drop as I tug the net of metal out of my head. All I have left is the smooth metal casing in my orbital eye socket, no circuitry, and no hidden programming taking over my arm.
Nic-coal slams into my chest, and I hold her close. The beat of Samara's orders still rains down on me, but the knowledge that I can choose, and she can't use a robot to force me, helps me brace on a stronger truth.
“I love you,” I tell the tiny human trembling in my arms. It comes out as a croak. “Thank you.”
“I knew you could do it. You saved yourself. I… I love you too.” Her words fill the cracks inside me like molten gold, sealing the broken shards together. Her eyes shine, reflecting back my shattered image.
She grins. “Although that's pretty gnarly, pulling out your own eye. I’m gonna call you Nutty Arture.”
I should have known that wouldn't faze her.
Pressing my lips to hers, I take strength from her light. I'll need her help for what comes next.
My hearts thunder maintaining the Gerverstock form. I release everything except Nic-coal as I shift back to my true self. Black and gold shoot up my arms and torso, soft where Nic-coal presses against me, hardened everywhere else. My very own armor.
Because if Samara wants a war, she'll get a war.
Pulling my human to my chest, I bellow in the direction of the nearest vid-bot. “I'm a Samarastock, a secret type of clone developed by Samara, the Prif, for one purpose: to kill a female and make you all think Tubers are dangerous.”
Juran and Ezla gape.
Nic-coal sucks in a deep breath, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear. “Clones aren't dangerous; they make good choices and bad, just like any other sentient being. Because they are sentient. The Prif’s the one creating dangerous clones, the ones living with you are safe.”
Nic-coal’s fingers lace with mine. She stands as tall as she can, shoulders thrown back, championing us all. And I can think of no better figurehead than the brave, tiny human calling out what we've grown immune to.
Nic-coal's making this about the wider picture, but I'm an asshole, and my war is personal.
I glare at the nearest camera. “You've lost, Samara.
You thought I was broken, but I've smashed your programming.
I'm not going to harm the one person who's ever treated me with compassion.
Even if it costs me everything, I'm not going to harm another female.”
Nic-coal looks up at me, catching what I've just said.
I let my arms drop from her. “I have killed, Nic-coal,” I whisper. “I killed an innocent female.”
An aged face swims in my memory, her scales mottled white and even translucent in parts. She’s kindly, smiling, and a chuckle in my mind makes me startle. ‘Innocent, Alpha? I thought I'd made a better impression than that.’
Katyen.
I shake my head to focus on the here and now, on Nic-coal's reaction to my confession, because it's probably not something she hears every day.
She maintains steady eye contact with me, her face composed. “We'll talk about what you remember.”
I bow my head. “Of course. But first, we have to run.”
All throughout this, Ezla and Juran have stood on the sidelines, staring at me. I incline my head in thanks. “You'll have to come with us or run away yourselves, or you'll be marched to the Euthanization Center.”
Nic-coal's face creases, but it's the truth. Ezla knows it, his scales hardening, but Juran hasn't been confronted with the harsh reality of our world yet. He pales all the way from his fists to his forehead.
My gaze slides to the Samarastock. He stands slowly, gaze locked on Nic-coal. The same programming drives him, but he doesn't have the experiences with Nic-coal, to balance out and cut through the false logic. Instead, he’s staring like he’s enchanted by her.
“Come on.” Taking Nic-coal's hand, I lead her into the dangerous jungle, Ezla and Juran following.