Page 144 of Border Control

Gara, Arture, and Arik group around me. Nevare’s content to sit to one side of the tent, his gaze focused on Shade, who flutters their leaves excitedly up and down his arm.

“Well?” Ilia asks. “What do you think? Are clone lives changed forever on Oloria?”

“It's hard to tell. Either way, we won't hear anything, and it doesn't affect us now. We're far away and free from the planet of our birth,” I remind them.

Who would have thought exile would afford us this much joy on top of freedom?

I glance at Arture. We still can't read the Pranastock’s mind, but surely he can see the pattern developing. Arik and Nevare aren't interested in any relations, so that leaves him to be paired.

And there's one more female.

Evidently the humans’ talk also turns in that direction, as Arra-bellah, El-len and Law-rah gently tease their friend. Nic-coal’s face goes red, but her brown eyes flick up to glance Arture's way.

Gara’s eyebrows pinch together. “What exactly did the Prif say?”

“She said the clones would be subject to a new improved justice system, and they would get their own mating games.”

“Anything else?” Gara presses. “The exact wording could be important.”

I frown. “She did say one thing. Something I don't understand, but it was a repeat of something a Parthiastock told me.” That whole episode of a single Parthiastock coming to see me and questioning me still leaves my stomach queasy.

As if there’s a meteor headed toward our cozy little planet, and we have no idea.

I shrug. “She said,Surgere ac excitare."

Ilia frowns. “What does it mean?”

“No clue,” Gara mutters.

No recognition pings down the connection between myself and Arik either.

But Arture, the quiet Pranastock pilot who’s barely spoken a word this evening, doubles over with a guttural groan that echoes across the tent. He clutches his stomach, his entire body spasming as if an internal force tears him apart from the inside.

“Arture, what's wrong?” Gara barks, immediately at his side. “Where does it hurt?"

Stifling a cry, Arture arches upright. The pilot's left eye goes wide, his mechanical right eye glowing from blue to a piercing red. His sky blue scales shift, darkening like a storm to a deep, ominous petrol blue, the exact shade of Ilia’s. His chest swells and keeps swelling, his shoulders bursting outward, arm and thighs flexing.

And all of us stare at a Gerverstock clone, the exact double of Ilia.

“Arture? What's going on?” Ilia moves close but, almost as a reflex, Arture straightens and slams a fist into his chest. Red flares up his arm, as if he's pulling on Gerverstock strength, and the impact sends Ilia reeling back.

He turns and does the same to Gara, who tumbles backwards from the blow.

Waves of mental torment pulse from the pilot-turned-adventurer clone. Previously we couldn't hear anything when we brushed Arture's mind, but now blue-white shards of pain rain on us, as hard as betrillium. His thoughts hurt like a shower of pellets, peppering our connection with screaming static.

“Calm down—” Arik orders, clutching his head as he staggers within range of our crewmate.

Arture whirls with a snarl, the metal fingers from his replacement limb elongating into razor-sharp claws and tearing across my wave brother's chest.

Arik doesn't scale up in time, and blood spatters in a wide arc onto the white tent. I take his pain, grunting as deep slashes appear on my torso, but I can't move. Cold shock freezes me in place.

How is Arture suddenly a Gerverstock?

“What the fuck?” Law-rah demands, glaring at Arture and then Ilia.

El-len gapes. “Ilia?”

“Everyone remain calm. Arture, desist,” Ilia orders.