Them

by K. A. Applegate

  Wylson stuck her head out of the arch. It opened onto the spiral path that circled the tower. To the right, downhill, uphill was left. She craned her head up, nothing but blank, yellowed stone wall above.

  The path was perhaps thirty feet across at this point. Equally far to the left and right were arched doors superficially similar to the one she was in.

  Theres a door over here, Roger Dodger yelled from back inside.

  Wylson pulled her head in. She still held her own spear awkwardly, across her chest. Shed done nothing with it to help Tamara.

  Tamara twirled her purple-blooded spear with unconscious ease and lounged by the top of the stairs as if waiting for the remaining Rider to come up after her.

  Wylson went to where a crowd had gathered around Roger Dodger. There was a door there, too short, too small. It was wood bound with iron.

  Should we open it? Burroway wondered aloud.

  Wylson was on the verge of saying yes, but there was something about the door. Something that made her insides twist.

  Alice in Wonderland, Tate said. She shrugged. Maybe theres a garden on the other side.

  I dont think so, Wylson said. But it bothered her, not being able to pinpoint a reason. When the Wall Street Journal had done their big feature on her company, they had described Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake as a CEO who could demand the most meticulous research and yet still decide to go with her gut.

  It had been a great piece. A high point in her life, along with getting the cover of BusinessWeek, and of course the first couple of days when her personal wealth had gone from less than a million to better than fourteen million.

  What was she worth now? More than a billion.

  A billion dollars issued by a government that no longer existed on a dead planet.

  Wylson had always trusted her instincts and her instincts said not to open that door. But these werent her business instincts, these were something else from somewhere else deep in her brain. This was a voice shed never heard in her head, a shivering, pleading voice.

  Dont open the door.

  Dont open the door.

  They were all looking at her. Looking at her and glancing back to the stair where Tamara and the baby stood guard.

  All waiting for her to decide.

  Well, open it, she said impatiently.

  Anamull, the big kid, the sixteen-year-old who looked like he should be playing for the NFL, grinned and grabbed the wrought-iron latch. He pulled. Nothing. He pulled harder and the door opened.

  Inside squatted a creature with a womans face, a white scarf, a red dress, and legs and feet that must have belonged to a frog. The woman held a long-handled iron pan over a charcoal fire.

  In the pan was a human head, hand, leg. The head was screaming in agony.

  Behind the woman stood an antlered deer, standing on its hind legs, wearing a robe. The deer just stared at them.

  Wylson cried out, jumped back. Anamull wailed and slammed the door shut. It bounced open. 2Face slammed it again and this time Anamull leaned his weight into it and the door stayed closed.

  What was that? Burroway demanded, his voice quaking.

  Not a garden, 2Face said, breathing heavily.

  Wylson was trembling. What was that, what, what? She swallowed hard. Some kind of trick. Some kind of illusion. Not real. Obviously.

  Her insides had gone liquid. The vision illusion, surely, special effect had turned reality inside out for a moment.

  Shake it off.

  She pried her hands apart, couldnt look like she was scared. She was in charge.

  Were trapped in here, Shy Hwang said. Cant go back down the stairs, sure cant go through that door.

  Theres the path outside, Wylson said, recovering enough now to take offense at Shys despairing tone. One thing was sure: His daughter had all the spine in that family.

  Yago said, You go right on that ramp path, it takes you back down to the town. You go left, it takes you up. Except we dont know that for sure because you could see that the tower was damaged.

  Sergeant? Are the Riders still down there at the bottom of the stairs? Daniel Burroway demanded.

  Only one, Tamara answered. I killed one. One took off.

  Why? Wylson wondered aloud. I mean, why did one take off?

  Why do you think? Tamara replied sardonically. They dont like the stairs. I dont think their boards can do stairs very well. So theyre looking for another way.

  Up the ramp, Yago said. Theyll come right up the ramp.

  The baby nodded, eager, excited. His mother smiled.

  You killed one of them? 2Face demanded skeptically.

  She did, Wylson confirmed. Feeling she needed to add an explanation, she said, Shes a professional soldier, after all. Trained with weapons. The explanation reassured her. Thats all it was: Tamara Hoyle was a Marine sergeant. Of course shed be able to fight. Nothing unnatural in that.

  We have two spears and one professional soldier, Burroway said darkly. If the Riders come after us in force, up that ramp, we cant hope to stop them.

  Thank you, Mr. Happy, Yago muttered. Hey, well just put the freak here in the doorway thatll scare them off. He jerked a thumb at 2Face. Put Half n Half here, and the baby out there, hey, thatd scare anyone. Whats the point of having freaks if we cant use them?

  Wylson shot a look at Tamara to see if shed taken offense. Tamara seemed bored.

  2Faces face was turning dark, at least the normal side of her face.

  Hey, did you see those Riders? Theyre so ugly even she couldnt scare them, Anamull added.

  Wylson knew she should shut Yago up; he was sowing discord. But however crude and cruel he might be, Yago was on her side. Besides, Wylson told herself, she was the boss, not some kind of preschool teacher promoting good behavior.

  2Face looked as if she could take care of herself, after all; her own father hadnt exactly jumped in to defend her. And anyway, she surely could have had plastic surgery. She didnt have to look that way.

  What am I supposed to do? Wylson asked herself. The boss has to know. The boss has to be in charge. Unless . . .

  I think we need to have a meeting, Wylson said, trying to sound decisive. T.R., Burroway, Shy, Tamara, if you . . . and Yago, you, too, to speak for the younger people. Meeting in five minutes: We need ideas, people. She clapped her hands together sharply.

  That was the right thing: a meeting of senior staff.

  Get organized. Set priorities. Assign tasks.

  She was the woman who had taken on AvivNet and Microsoft and SpongeCom and won. She could do this.

  Of course, a suppressed part of her mind commented, this really was worse. Business competitors didnt decapitate their victims and suck the flesh from their skulls. Or fry people in cast-iron pans.

  Not even Microsoft.

  CHAPTER SEVEN AN ALL-OVER SQUIRM.

  This is new damage. Jobs pointed at the crushed rock, then at the long burn scar.

  MoSteel watched his friend closely. He could see that Jobs was scared for Edward. Maybe for himself as well. That was a surprising thought. MoSteel thought of Jobs as fearless, but now that he considered it, that didnt seem quite right.

  Yeah, it looks like it just happened, MoSteel agreed. They had come to a rest, having circumnavigated about half of the tower. This side of the tower was much more regular in appearance. Miss Blake had explained that they were now on the side that was not shown in the original painting.

  The ship is extrapolating, Jobs said.

  MoSteel was fairly sure he knew what Jobs meant but the word extrapolating was not one he used. Anyway, the idea seemed to be that the ship was filling in the blanks in the original painting.

  At least that proves whoever is doing all this has an imagination, Olga said.

  Not necessarily, Jobs argued. The continuation of a pattern doesnt imply imagination. Program a computer with a grid, it can figure out how to extend the grid.

  Violet sighed. MoSteel had noticed that she had no patience for Jobss explanations. And
she showed no particular interest now as Jobs walked deeper into the arched opening, following the scorch mark.

  Jobs pressed his hand against the stone. Its still warm.

  MoSteel put his hand on Jobss shoulder. We dont want to be going in there any farther.

  Why not?

  Its dark.

  Not yet it isnt, Jobs said.

  MoSteel shook his head. You dont get a wiggle off this place?

  A what?

  MoSteel pointed at his own stomach. A wiggle worm in the guts, migo. A bad feeling. An all-over squirm.

  Jobs shrugged. Its an environment derived from a painting. A creepy painting. Thats all. Some artist was going for a look. That doesnt make it anything real.

  MoSteel shrugged and felt a little foolish. Of course Jobs was right.

  Besides, maybe theres an interior ramp. It would have to be easier than walking the circumference of this whole tower, right?

  Yeah, well, then we all go together. Im not leaving my mom back there.

  Jobs nodded. Of course. Lets just go in a ways, see what we see. We can always back out.

  They returned to gather Olga and Violet and to lift Billy once more.

  They entered through the arch, talking animatedly all the while to ward off the sense of being too small for their surroundings. The place had an echoing hush to it, a feeling MoSteel associated with class trips to the State House in Sacramento.

  The room was huge, but finite. There was a pointed archway at the far end, narrower, taller, sharper than the archway theyd entered through.

  They peeked through this new arch and found the space beyond no darker, despite the fact that the weak sunlight was far away now.

  Look at this. Jobs pointed down at the floor. There was a dark smudge, like someone had dragged charcoal. Jobs frowned and moved off to the right, leaving Billy behind.

  It hit here! he yelled.

  MoSteel joined him.

  See? So whatever it was, it came flying in through the arch, scraping the wall the whole way, burning, slammed into this wall, fell. Then dragged itself through the pointy arch.

  Why are you talking like you knew what it was? MoSteel demanded.

  Because I think I do know. I think it was a Blue Meanie. They came this way, we know that. Some of them were damaged. Maybe one crashed here.

  So why arent we going the other way, outta here? MoSteel asked.

  Jobs grinned. Mo, man, these Blue Meanies havent done us any harm. And one things for sure: They know more than we do about whats going on.

  Uh-huh. Lets keep going, then. The bad feeling had not gone away. Didnt Jobs feel it, too? Maybe not. Jobs could feel when a computer program was wrong. Maybe that ability obscured the more primitive ability to sense danger.

  Shh! Jobs held up a finger.

  Everyone froze and listened. A distinct sound of movement, of heavy steps, irregular, syncopated. Like a horses walk, maybe.

  MoSteel handed his half of Billys stretcher to his mother and moved out front. His mom gave him a be careful look and he winked back.

  They had reached the end of the second empty, echoing chamber. Another doorway, not an archway this time, just a big rectangular doorway.

  MoSteel poked his head through and motioned everyone else to stay back. The room beyond was roughly circular, with two sets of steps climbing the walls, and dark holes where other stairs must be heading down.

  And there, turned to face them, waiting at bay, charred and banged up but still alive, was a Blue Meanie.

  Hi, MoSteel said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT IS HE SOME KIND OF MUTANT?

  This would probably be a great opportunity, Yago thought. Except for the very real possibility of getting killed.

  Wylson knew nothing about fighting a battle. She was out of her depth. Lost, confused, and afraid, and trying unsuccessfully to hide it.

  This was the moment when a real leader like Yago could seize the moment. Only he had no idea what to do, either.

  They had two spears. Anamull had his dagger. The Riders were likely to appear at any moment. And for the last forty-five minutes Wylson had been conducting a staff meeting that involved the adults plus Yago squatting in a corner, equally far from the arch, the stairs, and the tiny door to hell.

  Most of the ideas they came up with had to do with organization. Wylson wanted departments with department heads. Burroway kept talking about a more military structure: platoons. T.R. favored a less hierarchical structure. Shy Hwang said nothing, just maintained his distant silence punctuated by grief-stricken sighs.

  Tamara Hoyle and the baby were ignored since shed refused to join the meeting. But Tamara was the point as far as Yago could see. They had one fighter: Tamara. They had one asset: Tamara. Wylson had told them all how the Marine had dispatched the Rider.

  The meeting was going nowhere in increasingly desperate circles. Time for Yago to offer his own ideas.

  The first thing we need to do, he said, is to make sure were all on the same team.

  Obviously we are, T.R. said.

  No, Yago said. You think the teams are human versus alien. My question is, how can we be sure some of us arent really some of them ? You going to tell me the baby is a regular old baby? You cant win a war when you have to watch your back.

  This isnt the time, Burroway said impatiently.

  Why cant we at least ask Tamara whats going on? Yago asked reasonably. Dont we have a right to know what side shes on? Her and 2Face, both.

  Yago watched their faces and refused to let a smile of triumph appear on his own lips. So easy. It was a lesson hed learned in his mothers White House: When people cant figure out how to come to grips with a hard thing, give them an easy thing to do.

  Wylson looked thoughtfully at Tamara. We do have a right to know what shes about. Her and the baby.

  And 2Face and Edward, Yago added. The issue here is who is with us and who is against us.

  Theres no reason to doubt 2Face, Burroway grumbled.

  Quit picking on my daughter, Shy Hwang said. You hate her because her face is burned. Youre a sick person, Yago.

  Theres nothing wrong with 2Face, Wylson pronounced with finality.

  Really? Yago waited till he had everyones attention. Then he nodded toward 2Face and Edward. Look at the kid. Edward. Watch him closely and youll see it.

  They watched. Stared. Edward was amusing himself, jumping over cracks between the paving stones. His clothing was torn and tattered like everyones, but his seemed to match the color of the walls. He passed in front of the small door. And for just a flicker of time he seemed to be part of the door. Then he was past it and his face and arms and clothing all resumed a coloration similar to that of the stone.

  What was that? T.R. demanded.

  Yago said, Hes been doing it for a while now. Its subtle so you dont notice unless you look right at him, and since hes so quiet mostly no one looks. Hes some kind of chameleon. Now that youve noticed . . . but you know who would have noticed a long time ago? Whos been taking care of Edward? 2Face has.

  In fact, Yago hadnt noticed, either. It was the Twitch, D-Caf, who had pointed it out.

  Is he some kind of mutant? Wylson demanded.

  And maybe not the only one, Yago said in a low voice. Tamara and the baby, Edward, and probably 2Face since shes been covering up for Edward. Like I said: We have to know who is with us, and who isnt really even like us.

  Im not listening to any more of this, Shy said and shuffled away. He didnt go straight to his daughter, but Yago knew he would soon enough.

  Fine, let him report back to 2Face. Let her make her move. Yago had things well in hand. Unless the Riders came and killed them all. In which case political game-playing wouldnt matter very much.

  Have to stay focused on the future, Yago told himself. Maybe the Riders would come and kill them all. But maybe they wouldnt. And in that case Yago had laid the foundation for his own rise to power.

  Sure enough, Hwang was sidling over toward his daughter. And she was
turning her good ear to hear him. She stared daggers across the room at Yago. Yago made a little kissy-mouth at her and then laughed.

  Tamara suddenly stood up, baby on her hip, and sauntered to the arch. It was growing dark outside. She seemed to be listening, and while she did, everyone watched.

  The baby made its obscene little chuckle.

  Pretty soon, Tamara remarked laconically. Pretty soon, and a lot of them.

  CHAPTER NINE WE COME IN PEACE?

  The Blue Meanie stared. Waited.

  He was smaller than a horse, maybe pony-size. Four legs without evident feet. Powerpuff Girl legs. Two serpentine tentacles, one on each side of his low-slung grazers head.

  He might have been made out of liquid night, so black that he was blue only where light touched him directly. He had eyes, one on each side, again like a horse, but there was no life in those eyes, no sign of a soul burning through.

  Jobs was probably right: It was a suit of some sort, Violet thought. Something was alive inside it, something presumably more vulnerable than this frightening apparition.

  One tentacle seemed to have been chopped in half. The midnight armor was scarred and scraped. The rocket-powered hind legs moved stiffly; both were charred black. The Meanie had definitely experienced some trouble. But he didnt look as bad as he should, for slamming into a stone wall.

  The creature waved its tentacles in quick, intricate patterns. Maybe some kind of language, communication. But when none of the humans responded in kind it stopped and simply waited.

  Go ahead, MoSteel urged Jobs. Talk to it.

  I dont know what to say, Jobs admitted.

  We come in peace? Olga suggested.

  Actually, we do, Jobs said.

  Violet took a step forward. He may recognize that Im female. Maybe that will reassure him. That was her stated reason for taking the lead. The real reason was that she felt she wasnt carrying her part of the burden. With her finger she couldnt carry the stretcher, and that had meant the two boys had done most of the work. Violet was perfectly content with the notion that men and women had different abilities, different duties, and different avocations. But she wasnt content being a burden. She had to contribute something beyond her ability to recognize the artistic antecedents of the environments.