Page 37 of Invasive Species (Outcasts of Oloria #2)

When I can’t eat anymore, I set my ripped package aside.

Resting my forehead on my knees, I hold myself from running up there to see her.

I would only get caught and killed, a senseless waste.

At the same time, what if she needs me, and I'm down here, rotting in an alleyway?

I press my hand to the center of my chest where the fledgling mate bond lies dormant.

Is it even there? Is it working? Or has time and distance apart severed the connection?

A bright light above makes me flinch into the shadows between the dorms, but it's another ad screen sailing into the plaza. This one shows news as well as ideas for what clones can spend their limited credits on, ads flashing on and off in between articles.

The main news item is how the clone in the Mating Games has gone missing, and I sit up as I confront a huge image of Ilia protecting El-len in an artificial jungle, where I identify at least ten different poisonous plants.

He even had his hands chained together. So that’s what happened when he returned to the Mating Games.

A smile stretches across my face looking at our leader and his chosen mate.

A red stamp flashes over his image— Defaulted . My smile fades as the news article confirms he’s run from the mate who chose him, hasn't been seen since, and no one is encouraged to look for him.

I know what conclusion I'd make if I didn't know the truth: that he’d been garroted, or ‘euthanized’ as a kinder term for such an ignoble fate.

Turning my head towards the low gray building off to one side of the Undercity, I shudder. We’re all in the shadow of the Euthanization Center, a dark building where failed clones go to be processed by Parthiastocks, and none ever come out.

The plaza floods with another batch of Selthiastocks coming into the Undercity after finishing their shifts in Selthias’ Oasis above, the ideal time for me to move around.

I can't get into any of the buildings without scanning my wrist chip, but over the past few days I've followed some other Selthiastocks inside and used the communal showers to get clean.

Setting down the rest of the meal, I stand up and stretch. “Thank you for the meal, Mae.”

She lays on her front, feathers spread and eyes half closed, a low rumble vibrating her wattle. If Arra-bellah were here she might pat her head, but I know better than to try, and stride off into the plaza as if I belong here.

Truly, if I'd been raised here, I would have early experiences of a district just like this. Cohorts of clones are made, raised and taught in one district, living, eating and sleeping next to their fellow batch mates.

Fear ripples my scales to camouflage myself with the neon ad-screens. What if they sense I’m not like them? What if they can all recognize one another and identify a stranger in their midst?

I shake the idea out of my head. I look and act just like them; the whole reason I'd been left at the Undercity Euthanization center was because I proved to be no different to a clone raised without an expensive mother-figure. Not smarter, not a better healer.

Nurture made no difference to our nature.

With that grim truth in mind, l act as if I’m choosing from the three options to eat on the ad screens when a clone bumps into me, setting my scales to flash a warning red.

“My apologies,” he mutters, patting my arms to check I’m unharmed. “I wasn’t looking where I was heading.”

“Think nothing of it.” I flick a finger over my left shoulder, the way Dom, Arik and Nevare did to show an incident was behind us, but this Selthiastock looks at me curiously.

Do they do that same action here? My mouth is dry as I stammer, “Never mind. It… it doesn't matter.”

He nods, stifling a huge yawn. “I can buy you a nutristim in apology.”

I don't really want a stimulant further agitating my constant anxiety, but I also haven't had any contact with anyone outside the murder chicken for days. “Very well. You choose the vendor.”

I gesture toward the three choices: Mila-paste meats, Mila-paste liquids, and the Mila-paste noodles that rest uneasily in my stomach.

He shakes his head, flashing me a wide but tired smile. “You must be from another district, there's a stim bar over here.”

He points toward the Euthanization Center, and my legs root to the plascrete, but he’s indicating the building leaning against it. A table top had been set up by an enterprising Magirustock, who's busy stoking hot coals in an old vat and spearing rodents and large insects on sticks to cook them.

“Delicious, he's got ratta today.” The Selthiastock’s pace picks up and he selects two seats right at the makeshift bar.

My purloined dinner surges in a wave of nausea, which I shove down. Eating a pest may be a different taste and texture to Mila-paste and add some variety, but I'm missing Earth cuisine more and more. I'm grateful to sit downwind of the smoking offerings, hoping to keep my dignity.

“What's your name—ah, designation?” I ask the Selthiastock once the cook clone has taken our order.

“E27AH. You?”

“G43RA.”

The cook places my nutristim near my hand, and I take a large swig, the live culture fizzing on my tongue and leaving an aftertaste as sharp as an Earth lemon.

I hadn't ever had to give my batch number growing up, and bitterly hated saying it once I'd been pushed back into a district like this with the rest of the clones.

Ilia let me use a shortened form, and I gave him the name my false mother had used for me, Gara. It feels more… me .

But then I realize I've given my actual batch number to someone else— drok na ! If he looks me up on any health database, he'll see I'm exiled and marked for euthanization and, like a good clone, he'll follow protocol and smile as I'm led into the gray building looming over us.

He sips at his nutristim, unaware of the panic unraveling inside me. “Ah, G. Two batches younger. Welcome to E district, and thanks for keeping me company. So, what are you working on right now?”

Survival. “Research on rare diseases. You?”

He grunts, eyebrows rising, when the Magirustock hands over his order, a singed ratta served on a plasteek napkin. The cook places his palms together and E27AH inclines his head, taking a bite with the cook looking on.

His eyes practically rolling to the back of his head, E27AH lets out a low moan of delight as he nibbles and chews.

“Are you sure you don't want one?” he asks me between greasy mouthfuls.

“I… I've already eaten.” And I’m about to lose that dinner if I'm not careful. I focus on the taste of the nutristim to keep me grounded, the acidic aftertaste making my eyes water.

Once he’s done, he smacks his lips. “Ah. That’s better.” He rubs his hands clean in the plasteek napkin and hands it back to the cook, who waves another ratta at him.

To my utter relief, he shakes his head, turning to me with a serious look on his face. “I’ve got a tricky case I could use a second opinion on.”

“I’ll do my best.” Of course we always would, because clones who don’t are disposed of.

He starts reeling off numbers linked to Olorian health markers that I know as well as my own by now. These are Arra-bellah’s health stats. My fist tightens so hard around the nutristim the glass container creaks in protest .

This clone, out of the many literal thousands who live and work here, is the very one treating my mate.

“Well? What do you think?” he asks me once he’s done.

I wish I knew, but at least I can get some information. “Is the patient conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Ambulatory?”

“For short periods of time, yes.”

I gnaw my lip, then drag it through my teeth to ask another question. “How does she react to the nutrient bed?”

His eyes narrow slightly but he says, “Patient responds well to it, it keeps them conscious, but any removal from the bed results in unconsciousness soon after.”

The nutrient bed is helping as I’d hoped, but it won’t make her better on its own. “Is she eating well?”

“No, the patient will take nothing by mouth.”

Drok na. “ Why not? Have you tried asking her preferences?”

“Of course, but she doesn't want anything to eat.”

“Is her reduced appetite because of her condition, or?—”

“I don’t know.” He leans back on his stool, studying me carefully.

But the full focus of my problem-solving ability is on Arra-bellah. “Try fresh plants rather than pastes, and cuts of meat in place of reconstituted substitutes.”

He blinks, surprised, then nods. “I’ll try that.”

“What analyses have you run?”

“Full works,” he says, draining his nutristim.

“And do the results show anything unusual?”

He glances away, cheeks flushing. “Well, yes, actually. But I probably shouldn’t discuss patient details out in the open like this.”

What had he found? Fear grips my hearts like a forceps. “ One more question. Is it the new virus, the one which killed a female before a cure could be found?”

He glances around and lowers his voice. “No. I’ve tested for that, but it came back negative.”

Thank the All-Mother. “Separately, has a cure been found yet?”

“We only ever had one case of the Katyen virus.” He frowns at me like this should be common knowledge.

Perhaps it is. Katyen is the name of the victim, and we were banished because we couldn’t find anything to save her in time.

Standing, the older clone pats me on the back. “Thanks for the meal. I’d better rest so I’m at my best to serve tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course. My thanks for the drink.” My hands clench of their own accord. I have to take this chance. “Would you like to meet again, same time here tomorrow?”

He considers this, tipping his head this way and that.

“I’ll buy,” I offer, even though I have no way of securing any credits. I’ll do anything to learn even a little of what Arra-bellah is going through right now.

“Very well. I’ll see you here tomorrow, as long as I am not held at an emergency.” Waving, he walks off toward one of the towering gray dorms.

I walk the opposite way, my scales draining of color at the very thought of Arra-bellah having some kind of emergency.

It was only then I realized I’d jumped ahead to tell him his patient was a “her,” when he hadn’t disclosed his patient was a female.