Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“And leave my pregnant mate alone with these strange males that have no khui?” He shakes his head slowly. “I am not leaving your side. They already watch you with hungry eyes.”
They do? That might be a figment of his imagination, but I get it. A small, horrible part of me is glad he’s staying with me. It makes sense, anyhow. You triage your patients, and fifteen needy people right in front of us take precedence over three possible people that might be lost. Like it or not, we’ve got to take care of the issue at hand.
So I nod and give his hands a squeeze, and we return to the fire.
I move to one female’s side, making sure the blanket is tight around her shoulders. She’s letting it slide as if she’s too warm, and that might be the onset of a fever. I can’t tell given that my body now runs hotter than hers and I have no thermometers, so I’m just going to have to wing it. “Okay, we’ve got some food. Is everyone getting warmer? Has everyone drunk some water? All extremities covered?”
I’rec moves back to the fire and begins to dole out chunks of the kah trail mix. One woman takes a bite and immediately wheezes, choking on the spices. “It’s like you pepper sprayed my mouth!”
Is it? I don’t remember it being that awful pre-khui, but I also don’t mind spicy food. I turn to I’rec. “Maybe just jerky, baby.”
He nods and pulls it from our stash, handing it out and asking no questions and not fussing, even though we run out. “Tell me which one of you is the leader,” he says. When no one responds, he glances over at me and then back at them. “Is no one in charge?”
I eye the glazed eyes of a male with catlike features and blue skin—a mix of praxiian and mesakkah, maybe? He has a hand on his head and doesn’t look to be very focused. Maybe one of the drugged ones is in charge?
“I have a bracelet,” says a woman suddenly, holding up her wrist.
“I watched mine,” says another, hugging her knees to her chest and shivering. “I didn’t understand it.”
“Understand what?” I ask, curious.
The woman holding up her arm gestures at the bracelet, and then I see a small, flashing button on the inside. She taps it, and then the air crackles and something that looks like a 3-D projection appears in the air.
It’s an older mesakkah woman with tattoos and a leathery face—Niri, if Daisy is right. “Lucky you,” the woman says, clapping her hands once in front of her. “Turns out, you’re a clone. And not just any clone, but an illegally made one. Normally an illegally made clone is immediately euthanized, but someone with a lot of credits paid to have you dropped off somewhere safe and hidden away. So, here you are.” The recording spreads her hands wide. “It’s a little chilly here, but the locals are nice and they’ll take care of you. Tell Daisy and Mardok I said hello, and that I hope they’re getting keffed hard and regularly by their prospective mates. As for you, my little clone, I left you some supplies. Play nice with your new buddies and have a great life.”
The recording winks out and then there’s silence.
“What’s a clone?” one of the women asks in a wobbly voice. “Is…is that what I think it is?”
“I’m not a clone,” insists a blonde. She looks insulted at the thought. “Clones don’t have memories, do they? And I have memories. My name’s Isadora. I have a flower shop called Busy Blooms in Oregon. And I know I’m not a clone.”
“Then how’d you get here?” asks the first woman.
Isadora hunches her shoulders. “I…don’t know.”
“You have the same bracelet I do,” says another. “If I’m a clone, you’re a clone too.”
“I’m not a clone,” Isadora exclaims. “I can prove it. I have a scar from an appendectomy right…here…” She lifts her blanket and shoves her shift up, not caring that she’s exposing her crotch to the world. She bares her abdomen and then runs her hand over smooth skin, frowning. “Where’s my scar?”
“You’re a clone,” says the first woman again, convinced.
Another woman pulls her arm out of the protective warmth of the blankets and extends it thoughtfully, then taps the button on her bracelet. The same message begins to play. “Lucky you. Turns out you’re a clone…”
“Lucky you…” chimes another bracelet. And then another. The message plays over and over again.
Turns out you’re a clone…
I share a glance with I’rec, worried. If these people are clones, is that why they’re missing memories or is there brain damage I can’t see? And why is it that Ketchup and Hot Sauce—aka the twins, Thrand and Vordis—are clones but they’ve got bright red skin and these people don’t?