“I’m Linuka Omga’s clone.” The pressure on her shoulder relented. “I was a contingency clone for the Shaajis of Aloo Dash. A collection of body parts and organs as backup, ready to be cut apart when needed.” The brute studied her with a new kind of glance. “Linuka Omga is dead?” “Of course she’s dead.” So far, the story held. Now Linuka only needed to discover why the prisoners had been brought here; and what the Assembly meant by observer relevance.

She was walking again, but this time with a destination. Why did the men stop? They stood in someone’s office, windowless but generous, minimalistic in furniture and decor. But, unlike the eternal boring place, there was something here: a room with objects, a chair to sit on, an abstract vase to throw in frustration, a desk to cry on. Had it always been here, so close? She had settled in for a long march, but the men barely dragged her twenty paces when the room appeared.

Linuka needed to convince the man that she was not a threat. By telling a simple story, not bending the truth too much. She found one, but then it was gone. She couldn’t hold on to a single convincing thought. Her mind turned into the ocean, and her words floated away, got pulled underwater, sank into a dark abyss. A muffled thud. Forehead pain. Dull paralysis. She never lost consciousness, but consciousness lost her.