Page 99 of Exiles on Earth
And likely screaming.
I keep my head held high and tell him, “I’ll die with pride for standing up for El-len.”
The Base Parthiastock doesn’t care. I’m just one more death to be processed here, another victim of the efficient system they run.
“You’ll be suspended while we fill the vats,” he says, shoving me against a metal beam. He quickly attaches my chains to a rope above my head and pushes a button, and the mechanism whirs.
The restraints haul my arms up and bite into my wrists as I dangle over the cold expanse of plascrete in the plaza, my feet far above the ground. The Parthiastocks stand in silent rows, their indifference cutting deeper than any blade could. Their eyes are empty, unfeeling, as if I’m nothing more than a malfunctioning tool to be discarded.
The raw ache in my arms spreads through my chest, but I hold onto the thought of her—El-len, her name a whisper in my mind—because it’s the only thing keeping despair at bay.
This is it. I’ve failed everyone I’ve ever met: my crew, the All-Mother’s wishes for me, all the hopeful clones looking upto me. They’ll see me and know what the price of dreams truly is.
Underneath my feet, the ground parts, revealing a huge empty metal vat. With a rush, liquid floods in from one side, hissing and spitting. The acrid fumes send tongues of fire deep into my lungs, making them spasm and ache.
Eyes blurring, all I can do is watch as the acid slowly traces up the sides of the vat, every inch bringing me closer to the promised agony to come. Someone arrives, more transports, probably dropping off more clones scheduled for destruction. All of them will go inside grateful they aren’t about to suffer my fate, even as they face their own.
And I find it hard to care. I only have to live with my hearts tearing themselves apart from losing El-len for a few more hours, or a day if I’m unlucky. All I need to do now is die. Even I can’t fail at that.
And then with a jolt, I’m dropped.
I shout once before I clamp my mouth shut, determined not to writhe or scream in case El-len sees the footage, but instead of dropping into hissing acid, I land in a heap on the plascrete, pain radiating up my side.
Frion helps me to sit, Ysura waving his arms angrily in my face. “You didn’t get any points! That’s not what we said.”
“Points?” My head lolls on my shoulders, lungs spasming from the residue of the fumes as I try to breathe deeply. “What do I… I care about… points?”
“Because you’ve brought shame to our mate,” Ysura snarls, purple crest flaring.
“Calm yourself, Ysura,” Frion says. “He’s close to fainting.”
“I’ll faint him myself!” Ysura shakes my shoulders. “Stupid Tuber.”
I shrug him off, hands still bound, and Frion grumbles. “Some fire at least. He’ll recover.” He sits downnext to me, holding me upright, and points toward the Parthiastocks running the Center.
Arguing with them is a female in white with a complex braid down her back, Bolera at her side. The scientist, Imaya, the one who El-len seemed to know.
She stomps towards us, robes fluttering. “At last. They’ve allowed me to claim him at least, and retroactively rescinded the euthanization order as long as he stays with us.”
Belora puts his arms underneath mine and helps me to my feet.
My head swims, and not only from the acid. I rasp, “What’s going on?”
“You’re being chosen! Isn’t that wonderful?” Imaya waves to her mates to bring me along, and leads the way to her personal transport, left idling at the side of the platform where I’d been about to meet my end.
“By who?”
Frion’s face darkens. “By Imaya,” he says, mouth tight. “It’s a high honor, Gerverstock.”
“But… why?”
“A favor,” Ysura says, stomping behind me. “But if you think you’re going to get to touch her, think again. I’ll break your fingers off.”
I don’t say anything else as they bundle me into the transport, Bolera handing me a glass of water. I drink it all deeply, looking from face to face: Bolera concerned, Frion gazing out the window at the gray center, Ysura kissing Imaya’s arm and shooting me deadly looks. Imaya herself pulls out a pad and starts muttering about her research, which Ysura is more than happy to talk to her about.
It slowly trickles into my mind, as the nanites repair the brain damage from the acid fumes, that this… this is my family.
I’ve been chosen, but not by El-len.
