Page 92 of Exiles on Earth
“No thanks.” I pull my headphones around my neck and lower myself onto a chair too big to be comfortable, my wet clothes sticking to me as I suppress a shiver.
“I don’t want one either,” she says, leaning back with a sneer, “but because you ordered it, now it’ll be popular. Same as this guttural Earth tongue.” Her gaze drifts to the window, disdain etched in every word.
The nerve, complaining about my language to my face. “Sorry,” I say, the tone making it clear I’m anything but, “who are you?”
She turns to me, her expression sharp enough to cut. “I am Prif Samara.”
The name hangs in the air, heavy with consequence. I inhale slowly, trying to steady myself. Prif Samara. The head honcho, the one who holds the reins of this system, who decides if Ilia and his kind are recognized as people—or discarded as things.
“And what do you want with me?” My voice is steady, but talking to her feels like walking a tightrope over a pit.
“Because you’re the talk of the Games,” Prif Samara replies, her tone velvet-smooth but laced with steel, “surpassing even the Tuber who entered.” She crosses her legs slowly, her eyes fixed on me, sharp and assessing.
A pang hits my chest, piercing and cold. I’ve let Ilia down. Just by being here, by drawing this kind of attention, I’m stealing his moment, his chance to shine. He deserves to be celebrated, to find someone who sees him, loves him—not to have me overshadowing him like this.
The door bursts open, and Shara strides in, wrapped in silver that gleams like moonlight. “Is everything well here?”
“Perfectly,” the Prif purrs, leaning back in her chair. “Welcome, Shara. I’ve just ordered us chai teas—they’re popular now.”
Those words snap Shara’s gaze to me. Her eyes burn with anger, though I don’t know what I’ve done to spark it. My stomach tightens. Trapped between these two powerhouses, I feel like a cornered animal. They’re playing a game I don’t understand, and Ilia’s the ball being tossed about in the middle.
“Why are you here, human?” Samara’s voice drips with amusement, but there’s an edge beneath it. “Here to learn from our technology, perhaps? An outreach from your slightly developed planet to one technologically superior?”
My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I fight the instinct to bolt. The studded chip Shara gave me bumps against my breastbone, dangling from a necklace, its weight a reminder of the escape I haven’t taken. “I’m not anything official, I don’t want to cause problems between our planets. I should probably go back. Today.”
Shara’s eyes drop to my hand, catching the faint imprint of the chip. Her lips thin into a line. “That might be for the best. Surely you have your own interests to pursue at home?”
“Right. My farm, the animals. My friends. All my responsibilities.” The words spill out, each one tightening the knot in my chest. The endless list of all I’ve left behind tangles my stomach with nerves: the lambing season starting without me, the farmers waiting for updates I can’t give, the tasks piling up. And Terry—he could’ve gone to the council by now, and I wouldn’t even know. They could be visiting, trying to reach me, and my friends might be in a difficult situation.
But. I’m stuck, caught between two worlds, and the weight of indecision is suffocating.
Really, what’s the point in hanging around here?
“I need to leave,” I say, my voice cracking against the tension in the room.
Shara’s eyes flicker with relief, but before I can latch onto it, PrifSamara rises smoothly, the movement fluid and commanding. “On the contrary, I think you should stay one more day,” she says, her words a silken trap. “The culmination of the Games is about to start. You wouldn’t want to miss it, would you? It’s simply thrilling—males defeating each other in a race to the females, who are worth different points. The first one to reach a female claims the maximum score, the second less, and so on, until the final challenger… earns nothing.”
Her sharp gaze cuts to Shara, like she’s scoring points of her own.
The All-Mother’s lips thin, her fingers twitching as if itching to intervene.
“Why do you hate him?” My chest heaves with the force of my anger.
Samara’s face betrays a flicker of surprise, vanishing so quickly I almost don’t believe I saw it. “Who?”
“Ilia.”
“Again, who?”
“The Gerverstock,” I bite out, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw aches.
“Oh, a clone.” Her voice is ice, cold and uncaring. “I wouldn’t waste hate on a Tuber.”
The dismissal in her tone slams into me, making my breath hitch. No. She doesn’t hate him. She doesn’t care enough to hate him. She’d rather just erase him, like he’s nothing.
A robot rolls in, three cups of chai balanced on its tray. Samara picks hers up, breathing in the steam with a slow, deliberate inhale. “Mm. Disgusting.”
I leave mine untouched, my hands clenching into fists under the table. Whatever game she’s playing, I’m just a pawn. But if there’s one thing I can do, it’s not screw this up for Ilia.
