Page 3 of Exiles on Earth
The Prif points at me. “He’s argumentative. Is this what you’ve bred the clones to be?” She gestures to the rest of my crew. “So what do we do with these defective ones? They’re a motley bunch rather than pure Gerverstocks. Why are they allmingling together? And why does that one have alterations? He should have been euthanized already.”
Arture stares out beyond the stage, his biological and mechanical eye not focusing on anything. I need to come up with an argument for keeping them all, something to satisfy the Prif as a suitable punishment.
But the All-Mother gets there first. “They’re clearly capable, each with their purpose, and we shouldn’t waste resources. What if we continue to send them on missions, but monitored closely?”
The Prif shakes her head, jaw tight. “I demand these Tubers be exiled, if they aren’t to be killed. They’re too much of a security risk.”
The Voice nods eagerly. “Exile. Send them on the next bot scouting ship, drop them off.”
The Prif smirks. “The ship will send back data that might be useful to us at least.”
The All-Mother’s hands fall. She can’t fight for us anymore, she doesn’t have as much power as the Prif. She steps aside as I’m led away, her face turned from mine.
She whispers, so quietly I barely catch it, “I’ll try to get you back for the Games.”
Try. Even she can't go against the will of the Prif.
But I can’t think about that, I have to focus on my crew. They scowl at the Parthiastocks who snap betrillium manacles around their wrists and necks, blue energy waves connecting the chains together. They’re exiled because of me, not through any fault of their own. Thinking of their likely fate on a hostile, uninhabited planet, my hearts shatter into more shards than stars in the galaxy.
We’re ledto the hangar where the robot-crewed shuttles lie, attended by Pranastock pilot clones a mirror of Arture except for his metal arm and leg. Their tall, gangly forms work quickly on the needle-shaped cargo hold and the bright orange bulbous cockpit on one end, the only space for a pilot if there is one assigned to the ship.
We won’t all fit in the cockpit, but my unspoken question is quickly answered. We’re shoved into the cargo hold bent double, as if we’re nothing but a burden. My stomach sours as we’re chained in rows opposite each other, backs pressed against the wall and our knees touching in the middle. This vehicle is meant for short planet hops from ship to surface, not long haul space exploration, and sitting here chained for days will be hideously uncomfortable for my crew. Two robot scouts on either side of me keep their laser barrels swiveling between all of us, each of their six legs shifting with sharp raps on the metal floor as the transport preps for take off.
When the shuttle lifts, it bashes us against the walls. I curl my hands into fists. We’ve done nothing wrong and my crew are guilty only of association with me, and yet we’re sentenced to a slow death, surviving as best we can on some remote planet.
The transport settles out into the depths of space, and finally the bumping stops. Our ability to heat ourselves up will be tested by the cold bite of space. At least there’s air hissing through the vents, although it wouldn’t surprise me if the shuttle depressurised any second now.
“At last,” Gara grumbles, his scales glowing green in the dim light, as though he’s preparing for a medical emergency.
No one could have prepared for this.
Arture sits with his eyes closed, so I can’t see his brilliant blue mechanical eye, but his posture is ramrod straight as always. His mechanical arm hangs loose from the manacle in the ceiling, swinging as the transport shudders, deactivated as per protocol for prisoners. Knowing him, he deactivated it himself.
He opens his eyes slowly, the blue of his irises glowing through layers of glass and fiber optics. “I wouldn’t say this is flying at all.”
“Falling upwards,” Arik offers, glancing at his wave brothers. Dom’s shoulder scales ripple with pain from his wound, but his nanites will already be fixing the damage, same as mine are busy with my throat. Nevare stares straight ahead, not unusual for him as the Apex. Arik’s smile is gone, his face gaunt, but he touches his head to one shoulder when I look at him. All fine, that signal means.
There’s nothing fine about this situation.
Arture’s eyebrow twitches. “Whatever it is, the pilot ought to be stripped of his license.”
I clear my throat, like sharp blades scraping down my gullet. My crew snap to attention, all eyes on me.
“It’s likely a bot pilot,” I inform them, pushing past the pain. “They wouldn’t waste good stock on us.”
“Except they have wasted good stock,” Gara says, bitterness souring his already dour tone.
Dom curls his hands into fists, the chains ringing out. “It’s any female’s right to dispose of defective clones,” he intones, as if reading from his enforcement handbook. The purple in his eyes dim as Nevare's gray swarms over them, the Apex taking over briefly in their mind-sync. Arik’s yellow eyes equally fade before they all snap back to normal, their psychic conversation over.
Gara rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t challenge Dom. Dom’s obedience is bred into him, the same way Gara’s inquisitive nature is bred into him.
Arture trembles, shivers passing into me where our thighs touch. His silvery scales shimmer with a nervous sheen as his gaze darts around the walls. He mutters words I can’t catch but recognize as flight calculations, star maps, and coordinates.
Drok na.He’s starting to unravel.
“Arture,” I say low and firm, trying to pull hisfocus back. His eyes snap around, wide and hollow, lost to the void in his mind.
I lean as far as I can into his field of view, pushing through the chains biting deeper into my wrists. “Arture, look at me,” I say again, putting orders into my voice this time. Other clones have ingrained instincts to obey Gerverstocks, but I don’t usually rely on them.
