Page 146 of Border Control
I heave upright with everything I have, reaching for him, but I won't get there in time.
Just as his fingers reach her, Nic-coal shoves my mate out of the way. Nic-coal stumbles into Arture, who lifts her effortlessly.
And then he sprints, sliding into a clone type who delivers small shipments at speed, a Tabellariustock, legs pumping towards the back garden, and the hovering, dormant ship.
Ilia and Gara give chase. I get to my knees but the world is swimming, everything tipping upside down. Whatever he spat at me stings.
“Dom.” Law-rah sobs next to me, but at least she's unhurt. “He's got Nicole! We need to do something.”
I get to my feet and stagger after Ilia and Gara in the garden. The All-Mother’s ship sits cloaked in stealth mode beside El-len’s plants, humming ominously, as if it’s waiting.
Arture stands on its gangplank, Nic-coal struggling, tossed onto his shoulder. He strokes the exterior and the hull shimmers, parting to admit him.
Ilia and Gara rush him, shouting, but it’s too late. The door closes, the cubes sliding into place. But before the entrance disappears, Arture glances back, a smirk on his face.
“Goodbye, shipmates, from your dear friend: Arture Samarastock."
Cold as unforgiving as space opens up inside me.
The engines ignite in a roar, the All-Mother’s vessel lifting off and away.
I’m left on my knees, Law-rah clinging to my shoulder as the ship disappears into darkness.
“No!” El-len screams into the night sky.
Ilia holds her, her sobs clearly chipping deep into him, but he keeps moving. He intercepts Gara on his way to me, and then Gara converses with his mate. With a quick exchange of glances, they rush straight to her studio, repurposed from the orange shuttle that crash landed and brought us here.
“What the fuck?” Law-rah repeats over and over, scrubbing the acid off my scales with a brush. The burning fades as my nanites slowly reverse the damage, clearing my head. I tend to Nevare and Arik, urging their nanites to heal them faster. My mind keeps snagging on the new clone type.
A Samarastock. A clone derived from and named for Samara, the Prif herself.
I never knew such a clone existed. Clearly they have the ability to take on aspects of other clones, to disguise themselves. To make us think he was a fellow crewmate. But why?
To deceive, to infiltrate. To spy.
The perfect clones for Samara indeed.
Something bangs next to the barn, and I flinch, bringing Law-rah into my arms to protect her. But it's just Arra-bellah throwing her canvases out of the back hatch of the shuttle.
“What are you doing?” Law-rah calls to her. My mate's voice is as broken as I feel.
Arra-bellah tosses out armfuls of paint cans to clatter to the stone flagons. “Making space.”
We stare at her, unable to think of anything to say in return. Exasperated, she throws her hands up, rushes inside, and returns with another armload to dispose of.
Finally El-len wipes her face and gives Ilia a nod. They stride together into the shuttle; with nothing else to guide us, Law-rah and I follow. Ilia and I fill the small corridor, turning sideways to make our way down and ducking under several beams. Law-rah and El-len don't have this problem, but even they look cramped.
“Excuse me,” Arra-bellah says, weaving at our waists toward the door with another armload of paints. “We've got a lot of work to do, so all hands on deck.”
Once we get to the cockpit, we confront more chaos. Gara's thrown open all the panels, wires and crystals and chips scattered on the floor.
He mumbles, “If I reattach this… make a new connection here?—”
“Can you print more plascrete?” Ilia barks at him.
“We've developed a few new grades since we've been working on the barn.”
“Good.” Ilia’s scales harden. Gara’s are already smeared with oils and lubricants.
