Page 116 of Exiles on Earth
“Thanks to you.” And it’s true, having El-len by my side gives me the confidence to lead. I absolutely cannot fail her, and I won’t.
TheAll-Mother’s visage returns, light motes dancing. “It’s all ready, inform me when you’re five minutes away. The ship powering up will alert the Prif, but hopefully she won’t be able to send her robots in time.”
“Hopefully.” I gather El-len into my arms. Having my mate as eager to protect me as I am to guard her fills me with a new, fierce fire. No matter what, I’m never going to lose her again.
The All-Mothers smiles, watching us. “While we wait… have you ever discovered where the word Gerverstock comes from?”
I shake my head. “I’ve always thought it was a clone-type designation.”
“They are, but the designations are a homage to the females who changed my life. Gerver was… an inspiration to me. A strong female who loved exploration and finding new cultures. It made sense for me to name your batch after her. One of the qualities I loved most about her was the way she would stand up for what she believed in, protesting peacefully but honestly. I always hoped that same quality would come through into the clones bearing the honor of her name.”
El-len’s hand squeezes mine. I recall shouting to the females watching for their entertainment, protesting against El-len’s treatment.
“I will always stand up on your behalf,” I promise El-len.
“And your own. And I’ll always fight for you,” she swears in return.
I stroke her cheek with my thumb, gazing into her warm brown eyes, when the pilot says, “Five minutes ten seconds to destination.”
“Then I’ll start the timer shortly. Good luck,” the All-Mother says.
The five minutes crawl by even though we zoom over the spacefield. Ahead lies a matt black spaceship, Pranastocks circling it warily as it fires to life unexpectedly.
And a robot patrols theperimeter.
“Gather everything you need,” I say, and El-len squeezes her arms around my midsection, pressing herself to my back.
“Floss, Rex, get ready,” she whispers into the scales of my back.
The male starhound raises his eyes to mine. ‘Still think you’re unworthy of a starhound’s attention?’
“Not anymore,” I say.
El-len looks between us, grinning.
As soon as the car lands, I throw the door open. “Go!”
El-len bolts, grabbing my hand on the way, starhounds streaking next to them. The ship’s thrusters power up, blasting dust and sand backwards, and the gangway shimmers as its blocks prepare to morph into a door.
The robot scuttles forwards, planting itself between us and salvation, barrel aimed directly at me.
“Drok na,” I mutter, balling my fists. Pulling El-len behind me, I call all the strength I have remaining into my arms. They bulge and split, muscles screaming with agony as they swell beyond their limits.
But I keep running. I charge at the robot, and when it fires its cannon at me, I scale up and lift my forearms to protect my head.
Shots blast against my arms, but I force more power through them. I’m going to break into pieces, but as long as El-len’s safe behind me, I don’t care. The knockback slows me to a walk and then a shuffle, and all the while the ship’s thrusters blow searing heat into our faces.
Shoving my way to the robot, I drop my guard to grab a leg and the cannon. With one surge of desperation, I tear the laser barrel and the leg apart, ripping the machine in half.
I stagger to my knees, strength spent, and El-len shoves her arms under mine, trying to lift me. Her strength isn’t enough to drag me, but it bolsters me enough to lurch forward. Our feet hitthe gangplank just as it swoops up, tipping us and the starhounds onto the ship’s floor.
Rolling over, I push upright and help El-len to stand. “Get to the console, we need to strap in,” I gasp.
Displays whoosh to full brightness as we stagger through the generous galley lined with crystalline sheets of rare umalium, past the Milagrove table suited for four or more and a long couch in soft red artificial barcha hide. The starhounds dash underneath the table, where they’ll be safe as we take off. I pull El-len toward the pilot’s console, which should be at the front of the ship, and slam my hand on the hatch panel for entry.
The door slides aside to a sumptuous bed, far too extravagant for proper space-faring. It could fit three Gerverstock clones shoulder to shoulder with room to spare, with sheets of finest Abraxian cotton.
“This isn’t the pilot’s console, right?” El-len confirms.
