Page 103 of Border Control
The redhead with ruby scales sitting beside Samara chuckles softly. “Our society had its own wars, long ago, but we learnedfrom them.” She smooths a curl behind her ear, a touch of pride in her voice. “We’re a post-war civilization now, thanks to the leadership of our Prif.”
I lick my dry lips. “How'd you manage that? Seems like we could learn a lesson or two.”
“Simply reduce need. Once all needs are met, there's no reason for conflict.”
Sounds easy. Too easy. “From what I've learned from my friends”—they don't need to know I mean the other clones too—“you still go to other planets to meet those needs.”
“We only take resources from non-sentient planets. We have no desire for war with anyone.”
Shade’s feelers writhe in my pocket. Dom said these plants came from another planet. They must have been considered non-sentient enough to take.
I wonder whether those definitions are as squeaky clean as these women seem to believe they are.
Samara takes a sip. “From the actions of you humans so far, I take it males are rare commodities?”
“What do you mean by ‘from our actions’?”
“You humans seem intent on securing males for yourselves, even if they’re lowly clones.”
Lowly? A spike of anger makes my chest constrict. Steady. “The clones are sentient, no matter what level of society they are. They have emotions, thoughts, dreams?—”
“Clones are our workers,” the blonde chirps. “Automatons meant to fulfill their functions, not to question or feel.”
“Dom feels. Ilia, Gara, all the others, they feel.” My voice sharpens, ragged at the edges with fury. How dare she dismiss them as though they’re nothing? As though Dom could be reduced to a tool.
“Reflexes. Nothing more.” Samara sighs. “I shouldn't have let Shara base them off Olorian templates. If they looked like globsof matter, no one would try to read thoughts and dreams into them then. Or mate with one,” she scoffs.
The other females nod apart from Imaya. Samara's got her yes women on tour, it seems.
My chest tightens further, a molten pressure beneath my ribs. Dom isn’t some experiment gone wrong. He isn’t reflex or programming. He’s the one who steadies me when panic tears my breath away, who kisses my forehead as if I’m worth cherishing, who trusts me despite the utter mess I’ve made of my life. His life isn’t disposable. It means everything.
I bite back from screaming, shoving back my rage. “Is that why you’re so harsh with them?”
Samara's eyes narrow. “We’re firm withallmales. They once ruled this planet, and their recklessness led us to near-destruction. We barely survived as a species. Now their numbers are limited and controlled, and those that exist must serve. They have a single purpose, and no more.”
She glances at me, her lip curling in disdain. “Clones are different. They are cheap imitations, incapable of true thought or emotion.”
“Or at least, that’s how it should have been,” Imaya says quietly. “There's mounting evidence to the contrary, Prif.”
“Someresearchers claim they have complex feelings, personalities. It’s as absurd as if this flyer were to suddenly demand a mate.”
Her words echo in the silence, the redheads and blonde nodding. I'm pretty sure I’ve read a book about that, but that's beside the point. I don’t care if their society views Dom as a mere tool. To me, he’s so much more. If I have to prove his worth to them, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.
One of the redheads tilts her head. “You could have one of our males, you know. A True Born son, properly bred for service.” She says this with an air of casual generosity, as if she’soffering me a priceless gift. “They’re kept in luxury and trained for a singular purpose—pleasing us.”
The other chimes in with a playful grin. “You could have as many as you like. You’d have a loyal companion with an actual personality.”
I don’t hesitate. “I want Dom.”
Samara’s eyes glint. “Perhaps for now, but we can show this poor traveler true luxury. You would have a better life here, being served and greatly desired.”
The idea’s tempting, this world where everything seems to be tailored to female desires. But it's hollow, shallow, missing the kind of depth that makes relationships meaningful.
I lift my chin. “I prefer my partnerships to be built on mutual respect.”
The women exchange glances. One of them lets out a soft laugh she quickly smothers in her drink.
But Samara's face is the one I'm focused on. Her reaction matters the most.
