Chapter 31 #2
He finds a shower head that spits out more air than water, but after sniffing the water as a Selthiastock, he says it’s safe.
I open my mouth to ask him if he’d wash with me, but he’s already gone.
I wash up quickly and, while it’s gross putting my sweaty technical t-shirt and scarf wraps back on, needs must.
When I return to Arture, he stands in the center of the room, fists flexing and bunching.
“Your turn,” I say, raking fingers through my hair.
He shakes his head.
“Not a request.” I turn him around and march him into the shower room. “You’re all dusty and sandy.”
“I’m fine.”
In response, I brush his chest. My finger comes off covered with sand, dirt and sweat, which forms a thin patina on his scales. He meets my eyes, but the depth of sadness in them shakes me.
“Come on. Let’s get you sorted,” I whisper.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again and nods. I take his arm and he limps into the bathroom, leaning on me slightly. Once he’s in, I leave the room, listening at the door until the hiss of the water reassures me he’s on the case.
I don’t have any snacks, so I plump pillows on the couch and pace until he comes out. When he does, he stands in the center of the room again.
I point to the big, inviting couch. “Sit.”
He collapses onto it, then groans. His legs spread wide as he slowly sinks into it. I sit next to him and gather his hand in mine but, while he doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t hold on to my fingers either.
"The guys are nice," I begin softly. "How’d you meet Ezla?"
He looks away. “He got in the way and became swept up in it.”
“Saving Juran was very kind of you.” He hauled the Lautostock up by one arm during the first day of the Games. It seems like years ago.
He lets out a grunt, his eyes fixed somewhere past me. “I don’t know why they stuck by me.”
"Because that kindness was returned to you."
"I’m not kind," he scoffs, leaning forward, hands pressed between his knees and shoulders hunched as though he’s trying to fold himself into nothing.
I touch his back. “You saved them. You. Not anyone else. And it wasn’t for any gain.”
He doesn’t answer right away, twisting his metal and organic fingers together. “I think... when we clones started acting selflessly, not for our own ends, that’s when the Prif felt she lost control.”
“Uh… are you empathizing with her? FYI, we don’t empathize with dictators.”
He snorts, but gets serious again. “I understand. It does feel like I’ve lost control. I don’t have levers to use against them, or... or you. I just have... trust.” He says the word like it scalds his tongue.
“Yes. I suppose it is scary. But for me? It’s normal.”
He nods, closing his eye. “I… I want to live like that, Nic-coal. But there’s one more dark corner of my mind. One more memory to… integrate.” His hands shake, both his organic and his metal one. “And I don’t know who I’ll be when I fully remember it.”
I slide my arms around him. “You think you killed someone.”
“A female. Hurting a female is… the worst crime. Killing one is unheard of. No clone can even think of something like that, and yet I… I did it. It means Samara broke all the conditioning built into clones; she’s pushed me so far from it, I’m beyond redemption.
I don’t know what other little surprises lie inside.
I don’t know how deep the instruction goes, how much I have to tear out to rip it from the roots completely.
” He looks up at me, heartbreak in his face.
Without his mechanical eye, there’s a gaping void in his face, and it makes him look even more vulnerable.
“And I’m afraid if I did it once, I can do it again. ”
Shaking my head, I lace my fingers with his. “You won’t. You’re in control now. Let’s examine what you did when you were under her control, and I’ll help you put it in perspective.”
He sits up slowly. “Alright. Before we begin, I want to emphasize… if you want to leave, I won’t stop you. Juran and Ezla will protect you.”
“Tell me about it,” I say quietly.
He balls and relaxes his fists, but I don’t feel threatened. It’s a self-soothing motion.
When the quiet gets too much, I say, “What can you remember? I wish you could show me somehow.”
“I can.” He shifts into a purple Parthiastock, lavender eye brimming with tears.
The room fades, the acrid smell of sand receding. Around us twist small blocks of grays, blacks and neon blue, sliding into smooth walls like the front door of the All-Mother’s spaceship.
“Uhhh…” I say, glancing around.
Arture appears beside me as himself, golden scales dim in the corridor. “Parthiastock Apexes and strong Bases can project mental images. You’re seeing my memory right now.”
“Cool.” I thread my arm through his. Even though this is amazing, this is, like, the fiftieth amazing thing I’ve seen in one week alone.
In front of us strides a Pranastock, swinging his metal right arm with every purposeful step.
Arture jerks his chin toward him. “Me, as a happy, stupid Pranastock. I’ve just come back from a mission, and I went to the mechanic to get my arm checked. There was a Parthiastock there, waiting.”
He pauses, and I glance up at him. His biological eye fixes on the ceiling, distant, as though he’s staring through time itself.
“It had happened a few times by then,” he continues.
“What I mean is, a Parthiastock would be there to pick me up, but it was really a Samarastock, sent by the Prif to retrieve me so I could answer all her questions about Ilia. But I never remember who they were, and every time, I just... followed them quietly, as if I somehow knew I was supposed to.” He lets out a dry, humorless laugh.
“Not that many clones would fight when a Parthiastock arrests them, of course.”
“What happens next?” I ask.
The walls melt, and we’re in a dim room. Arture stands with his hands in cuffs, while Samara sits behind a desk of thick wood as shining as mahogany. “Surgere ac excitare,” she murmurs, and the Pranastock shivers, black and red scales clicking into gold as his body changes.
The memory Arture pants, blinking at the Prif, then straightens up with a hard swallow. “My Prif. What are your orders for me?”
“Did you find a poisonous compound new to Olorian science?”
The handcuffed Arture frowns. “I… yes.”
Arture whispers to me, “Previously, she’d ordered me to find a new poison on the next planet I visited, and I did. Subconsciously, I followed the order, picking up some kind of plant that made Gara shudder to look at it.”
Samara nods, and the other Samarastocks unlock Arture, lips curling at his metal arm. He shoots them a dirty look as he massages his left wrist, then reaches into his cargo pants and pulls out a vial.
The Prif barely glances at it. “Good. Take it to Katyen Al Aura’s compound. Either kill her with it, or smother her and leave traces of it in her body.”
Arture’s scales, both in the memory and now, flatten. Their hands shake, and the memory splinters. We’re walking in the open air, toward a wall.
“Wait.” I hold up my hands. “What do you remember about why Samara gave those orders? Who was Kat… Um, Ms Aura?”
He blinks at me, then he starts pacing. Even here, his steps are uneven thanks to his injured leg, but he walks fast, as if he’s trying to outpace the thoughts chasing him.
“I… I don’t remember exactly. Wait. I think I do.
She said Katyen had betrayed her, that if I were loyal, I’d kill her for treason.
I didn’t know who Katyen was, I had to be shown an image, and what I saw…
touched something inside me. Set it off, like a long fuse on an explosive.
I knew her, I was sure of it, but I couldn’t place her at all. ”
I want to ask if he can remember now, but jumping around might jostle his memory shut. “What did you do in response?”
The open air darkens, and we’re back in the small room, facing Samara.
In the memory, Arture tells her, “No.”
My eyes prickle with tears as I hug my Arture’s arm. “You refused. That’s good.”
“It doesn’t matter, Katyen was still hurt. I must have done it.” His gaze flickers around the room, as though he’s scanning for an escape route. As the other clones close in on him, as the memory Arture collapses to the ground, screaming and holding his head. Red pulses in from the edges.
He takes a deep breath, his shoulders stiffening as though bracing for a blow. The lights dim again, screams ringing out around us.
“Oh, Arture.” My throat thickens with tears.
“I… I don’t want to remember.” His voice falters. “But I will. I… need to.”
I lift his hand and press a kiss to his battered knuckles. He’s been through so much, and yet, I have to keep confronting him with the memory. My voice barely above a whisper, I ask, “What happened then?”
The sky lightens, a merciless sun beating overhead. Snatches of Arture come through, walking confidently down a bright street lined with flashing signs, as a different type of Olorian. Not one I’ve seen before, with yellow scales. Most shocking is the bright blue and pink mohawk he’s sporting.
The Arture next to me starts reporting, as if the cadence soothes him.
“I approached the female’s compound. I remember wanting, wishing for someone to stop me, to challenge me, to take me away from here, to kill me.
The poison seemed to pulse in the pocket of my pants, getting heavier with each stride.
My eye throbbed as though she was driving a drill into my head.
” He raises his hand to cover the hole of his right eye.
“I suppose she was, and it meant I couldn’t stop. ”
The doors melt away, and Arture says, “I was let in to see Katyen, disguised as one of her True Born sons. She was in bed... sick.”
The room slowly drips in around us like rain running down a window pane into a brief sketch. A sterile, white room, a bed, and a female, old and frail.