Page 109 of Invasive Species
But it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My sunshine wraps her legs around me, scared yet throwing her arms around my shoulders and neck as if to protect me.
“Don't you dare hurt him,” she shouts at the looming Parthiastocks. “I'm in charge here, me, and I say leave us alone!”
“You'rein charge?” an arch voice says in Earth speak.
The Parthiastocks part and each get to their knees, bowing their heads in the radiance of a beautiful older female with golden shimmering scales. The Prif, Samara, the leader of the females and therefore the planet of Oloria.
I avert my gaze but only because I don't want to annoy the most powerful woman on the planet.Drok na, but this just got a million times worse.
The Prif’s blood red lips part in a smile that only serves tobare her pointed teeth. “The clone was duly sentenced to death,” she says in Olorian. “Why is he still alive?”
“Most honorable Prif,” the Parthiastock who landed on us begins. “He is knotted to her.”
She glances at our entwined bodies, eyes narrowing. “I wonder if the knot will deflate immediately at the moment of his death, or take some time.” Flicking her hand at the closest Parthiastock, who scrambles up, she orders, “Bring me a chair, I tire of standing, and then break his neck.”
Despite her words, her tone isn’t personal. She’s so detached that my life is merely a mildly interesting scientific phenomenon—and clearly, so is my death.
“Yes, Prif,” the Parthiastock intones, no doubt silently signaling his wave brother, for another Parthiastock looms behind me, the shadow of his grasping fingers crawling over the peaceful plants arrayed around our lovemaking. He's ready to end my life.
But I can’t let them kill me, not yet.
With a dry mouth, I begin in Olorian, “Prif Samara, I have to finish knotting this human to cure her, but I… I have a nascent mate bond with her. Please, I beg you, after my execution give her the best support and care?—”
“A bond? With a clone?” Her lips curl like wood substrate in a fire with the heat of her disgust. “There’s no such thing. Get rid of him,” she orders.
Time is short and I want to press myself close to my sunshine one last time, but if I let the bond form, she might feel pain when I die. I arrange my legs either side of hers, bracing my body; all I can do now is hope my corpse doesn't crush her and she gets the care she needs from Ezla.
Arra-bellah struggles underneath me, no doubt spotting the Parthiastock bending to grasp my neck in his unyielding hands. Her arms spasm tighter around my shoulders as she begs, “I love him, wait, don't hurt him, please, wait!”
Seeing her shining eyes, overfilling with grief, shatters what’s left of my hearts. In my momentary weakness, light as bright as the golden sun surges into my chest, filling all the cracks in my hearts and making me whole.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I failed you.”
Her wild eyes find mine but it’s too late, the Parthiastock’s palms touch my jaw, he’s going to rip my head to the side and hyperextend my cervical spine, snapping it. Will my consciousness flee at the same time? Even if it’s agonizing, I want to stay in her light for as long as I can.
A new voice orders, “Halt.”
I stare into Arra-bellah's tear streaked face, knowing this is only a short reprieve, but in the corner of my eye, silver glimmers.
The All-Mother, Shara, stands in the doorway, her scales pink as if she’s been exerting herself. Behind her is Ezla, hands limp at his sides in relaxation but his nostrils flaring as he scents the room. Finally, strutting in comes Mae, purple crest flaring. She gives a rattling hiss and plants herself next to Arra-bellah, claws clicking on the polished floor.
The All-Mother sweeps in. “Why are we intruding on our guest and patient in such an… intimate moment?” she asks Prif Samara.
Samara’s eyes flick over Shara's. The power balance between the two is a knife edge: the All-Mother gave her natural eggs to be developed into the Tubers, a series of specialized clones, and was given recognition and power among females because of that. Meanwhile, Prif Samara is the elected official chosen by the females to lead them. Samara’s word is law, but Shara’s sacrifice also holds sway with the females.
And, to some extent, with the Tubers. Even now I can see the Parthiastocks subtly shifting their lowered heads to snatch a glimpse of the being who is theoretically their mother. As forme, I know this woman is supposed to mean something to me according to the rest of the galaxy, but she's always been a distant, faceless figure. I remember the mother who raised me with a pain now dulled by Arra-bellah's bright, loving acceptance of me, and, at the end of my life, I know that’s enough for me.
“Shara,” the Prif grates between her teeth. “I'm taking care of an issue of national security.”
“And I'm taking care of my guest and, also, all of female kind, Samara,” Shara explains evenly. She gestures to Ezla. “New research has been brought to my attention about Selthia’s stock of clones. You recall how fond Selthia was of surprises?”
I still, wrapping Arra-bellah beneath me. I know nothing of the origin of my Tuber class name.
“Yes,” Samara replies, her voice low.
“She was the greatest healer we had, able to determine what ailed a patient within a few heartbeats of meeting them.” Shara walks toward Arra-bellah's bed to sit on the edge, sinking into the Milagrove nutrient bed slightly. “She was also an accomplished prankster, delighting in shocking everyone.” Shara chuckles. “Why, I remember when she?—”
“Your point being?” Samara demands, tapping her sharp nails on the back of a Parthiastock's head. He jerks with every rap.
