by Scott Sigler
Bishop shakes his head. “I doubt that. Someone built the fire pit, someone built the city. There are people on Omeyocan.”
Visca shrugs. “Then our clothes, maybe? Could be a smell on those?”
More questions for which we do not have answers.
“We keep moving,” Bishop says. “The next animal might like the way we smell. Visca, move out.”
Visca turns and walks down the trail, barely making a sound.
I’m supposed to be in charge, but out here, Bishop is giving the orders. That’s fine for now—my pounding heart is crushing my chest and lungs. I don’t think I could focus on anything other than staying on the trail.
Bishop points at Borjigin. “And you need to be quiet.”
Coyotl steps between them.
“Leave him alone, Bishop. He’s doing the best he can.”
Borjigin says nothing, just stands there, shivering.
Bishop glares at Borjigin, then at Coyotl, then turns and heads down the trail.
—
We walk through the jungle. Tiny bugs are starting to land on me, but they don’t bite. It’s more annoying than anything else.
That big predator scared the hell out of me. An hour later and I’m still not feeling right. It was like a bear or a giant wolf, with an elephant’s trunk that ended in ant pincers. What do we even call it? Snake-wolf? Bear-bug? Hard to think of a name, because there are no easy comparisons to Matilda’s memories.
The buzzing of the blurds. The hoots of unseen animals echoing through the canopy. The heat. The humidity. The red sun blazing off yellow leaves. We are in so much trouble right now, yet my love for Omeyocan overwhelms me. This is my home. It was my home before I ever set foot here. I don’t want to be anyplace else. Not ever.
Up ahead, Visca stops. He holds up a fist.
Bishop jogs back to us. The leaves seem to part for him, he seems to slide through them as if he has no substance at all.
He puts one arm around Kalle, the other around me, nods toward a tree trunk on the right side of the path. He wants us to hide.
The three of us kneel behind the tree trunk. I look around: Visca has vanished. Borjigin is on the other side of the trail, hiding behind a fallen log. Coyotl is with him, vine-wrapped and nearly invisible.
The wind changes slightly—I catch a faint wisp of burned toast.
Then I hear it. A noise, soft, regular…branches sliding off something…a faint crackle of twigs snapping underfoot…
This is it—we’ve found the fire-builders. My breathing sounds so loud. My heart hammers.
Will they accept us? Teach us how to hunt and prepare food? Can our two cultures live side by side? Or will this go the other way—will we have to force them to tell us how to survive?
I see movement down the path. Through the yellow leaves, I glimpse a flash of red and green.
Will they be young, like us, or old, like the Grownups?
The fire-builder comes around a thick tree trunk, into view.
My stomach drops.
The fire-builders, who lurked in the Observatory’s shadows, who smell like burned toast…
They aren’t like us.
They aren’t Grownups.
They aren’t people at all.
Borjigin’s hiss of fear slices through the jungle.
The fire-builder stops.
Underbrush and dangling vines partially obscure it. It’s not an animal—animals don’t carry tools. Is that a club it’s holding?
I feel numb. Not the “blanked-out” sensation I’ve grown used to, this is something else…a feeling of nothingness.
It wears rags for clothing, frayed strips of yellow, green and blue—the colors of the jungle—tied around long, thin, strong arms. Between the strips of cloth, I see wrinkled, dark-blue skin.
It is almost my height. Head wider and longer than mine. Eyes, three of them, middle one set slightly above the bottom two, a shallow triangle of eyes that flick about, searching. Even from a distance, their color jumps out: bright blue, like O’Malley’s. Below the eyes, a wide mouth: purple lips curve downward in an exaggerated frown.
Matilda’s memories struggle to define what I see. A flashfire of images: toad-mouth frog-mouth fish-mouth.
That head swivels suddenly, looks left. The creature comes closer, pushing past encroaching branches. Something strange about the way it moves.
I see its legs now: rag-tied, thick and powerful, bent like it’s sitting on an invisible chair. The creature is leaning forward, so much so I don’t understand why it doesn’t fall flat on its strange face.
Both legs push down at the same time, softly springing the creature forward. Not a step, a hop, both long feet coming off the trail. It lands silently.
The three blue eyes flick down the trail, side to side. I think it heard Borjigin and is searching for the source of the sound.
The fire-builder turns, looks back the way it came, and I see why it doesn’t fall—a tail, long and thick, balances out the forward lean.
It turns our way again, still searching, still wary. Strange, long hands adjust their grip on the club. Two fingers, not four, thicker than ours, as is the long thumb. Arms are wiry, corded with muscle.
That club bothers me, but I don’t know why. Long and thin, like the handle of Farrar’s shovel, but half wood, half metal. Nothing dangerous on the tip—no axe head, no spear blade. The club widens and flattens at the other end, the end held close to its body; maybe that part is for smashing things, just like Visca’s sledgehammer.
A tap on my arm. Bishop, both hands on his red axe, nostrils flaring, staring at me. He gives his axe a single shake, asking me a silent question: Should I kill it?
Is this creature alone? If it spots one of us, will it sound an alarm? It doesn’t seem to be wearing anything like the Grownups’ bracelets, nothing that could hit us from a distance. Bishop can surprise it, kill it quick. This thing isn’t like us—it is other—and we face so many threats already.
I don’t know what to do.
Blue eyes scan the trail, the underbrush.
Two small hops bring the creature closer.
It wears a lattice on its chest, kind of like a necklace: it’s made of bones. A bulging bag hangs from its hip.
Only a few steps away now—it wouldn’t have time to react before Bishop buries his axe in that wide head.
I glance across the trail. From my angle, Borjigin is barely visible behind a covering of wide leaves. I can’t see Coyotl at all. I have no idea where Visca is.
The fire-builder rises up slightly. The heavy tail rests on the ground, supporting its weight. It opens its wide mouth and barks out a single, harsh syllable.
More movement from farther down the trail. It wasn’t alone. Three rag-tied creatures that look just like the first. No, their skin isn’t as wrinkled, and they’re a different color. Two are a purplish blue, the other is purplish red. The purplish-red one is the smallest of the four.
Then, two more creatures, less than half the size of the others—children. Their skin is a bright, deep red.
Bishop tenses. He’s going to attack.
Kalle puts her little hand on his arm. Wide-eyed, she shakes her head.
That small gesture brings me back to our desperate situation—we need help. If we can eat what these creatures eat, it doesn’t matter that they aren’t human.
I look into Bishop’s eyes, mouth the word No.
The six creatures suddenly spring down the trail. The adults move quietly and gracefully. The little ones have to make twice as many jumps to keep up. Those two are tiny, with big, blue eyes—I can’t help but think of them as cute.
All of them continue down the trail, vanish into the jungle.
Everything has changed. Children. Families.
Their scent—burned toast—the same thing I smelled at the fire, at the hole in the wall…and at the Observatory. Creatures like these were watching us there. They didn’t attack.
Bishop whispers in my ear: “What
do we do now?”
I have no idea. I should have tried to talk to them, but I was too stunned, too afraid.
How long have those creatures been on Omeyocan?
They aren’t like the spiders. The spider is an animal; these creatures wore clothes, jewelry, carried either a tool or a weapon. They acted together, as a unit, like we do. They protected their children.
I don’t have to be Spingate to see that the creatures are well fed. And from what little we know, it seems we can eat what they eat.
The answer to our survival lies with something that isn’t human.
I need to learn more.
“We’ll follow them,” I say. “Let’s move.”
—
We stay close together. Visca is in front. He sweats more than anyone I’ve ever seen; most of the dirt and plant juice have washed off his face. His pale skin looks reddened from the sun, although his black circle-star symbol still stands out clearly.
He keeps us on their trail. That’s not easy, as we’ve crisscrossed at least a dozen intersecting paths. If the fire-makers made all of these paths, I wonder how many of them there are.
The building with the fire pit…one wall had been knocked in. We think a spider did that. Does that mean spiders attack the creatures just like they attack us? Could that possibly give us some common ground, a way to start communicating?
Every twenty or thirty steps, Visca stops, looks at the ground or an overhanging branch. I watch him carefully, see what he sees: a bit of overturned moss, a dangling wisp of colored thread clinging to a branch, a footprint in the dirt holding pooled-up water. This is how he tracks them. I wonder if I could do the same. I’m beginning to think that if I really paid attention, I could follow them using my nose alone.
That smell…burned toast…my dad used to make breakfast. For me and Mom and…I had a little brother? Dad was great at dinner, especially pork, but breakfast was always a disaster…burned toast, runny eggs, and—
Borjigin stumbles into me from behind—I stopped walking, lost in that unexpected memory.
“Sorry, Em,” he says, too loud by far. “I was watching my feet.”
“Be quiet,” I whisper.
He nods furiously. He’s afraid of the creatures, of what else might wait for us in this never-ending jungle.
Kalle is scared, too. I can see it on her little face. We all are, even the circle-stars. We’re just kids, reacting to an impossible situation. No help, no direction, no guidance.
I move down the trail again, catch up to Bishop.
That memory of breakfast. So real. But it’s Matilda’s memory, not mine. Why couldn’t that have been my life? Why couldn’t I have been born instead of hatched? A loving family, parents, a brother.
A new smell: roasting meat.
Visca raises a fist. We stop. He kneels, studies the ground, then we’re moving again, down a steep, tree-thick slope littered with vine-covered rubble. At the bottom, a shallow pond that comes up to our knees. I look around, realize the uneven ground rises up on all sides and that the pond is roughly circular: we’re in a crater, wider than the shuttle is long. A shiver runs through me—what kind of explosion could make a hole this big?
Visca keeps going. Soon we’re climbing up the far side. The mostly hidden rubble makes for dangerous footing, noisy footing, broken blocks and bits of masonry clicking and clacking with our steps.
Near the top, Visca holds up a fist. Bishop kneels next to him, looks, waves me forward. The three of us crouch down in the underbrush, just our heads peeking out from behind the crater’s lip.
We stare out at an uneven clearing. Vine-encrusted crumbling walls tower around the edge. Four walls, or at least parts of them, in that hex shape—I think the two missing walls were once where the crater is now. Beyond those ruined walls, the trees are thick, tall and old.
At the center of the clearing, a small, flickering fire. Above it, a little animal roasting on a spit. Juice bubbles out, hisses on the glowing coals below. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of my stomach right now, but the meat smells amazing.
No sign of the creatures. They built a fire, started cooking that animal, then left?
I lean close to Bishop: “Where are they?”
His gaze flicks about the clearing. The way his eyes move reminds me of the rag-clad fire-builder back on the trail, looking for danger, not finding any.
“I don’t like this,” he whispers.
Neither do I, but that doesn’t matter. I missed the first chance to talk to these creatures. I won’t miss the second.
Creatures…that’s no way to think of intelligent beings that might help us. I will call them Springers, at least until I understand what they call themselves.
“I’m going to the fire,” I say.
Bishop shakes his head. “Let me. They could be dangerous.”
Could be, that’s true, but Bishop is dangerous. Back on the trail, he was ready to kill them all. Even the children, probably. If there’s any chance for peace, for cooperation, I don’t want him screwing it up.
“My decision,” I say. “Stay here.”
His face tightens. At the shuttle, he follows my orders without question. Out here, he expects I will follow his.
Not this time.
I step over the crater’s lip. The clearing’s footing is uneven, a once-hard surface shattered as if by an earthquake. Dirt, vines and leaves cover the ground, cling to broken bits of building. Anything exposed to the light is dotted with blue-green moss. The path we were on continues, a narrow line that winds through the larger bits of rubble.
I’m scared. I’m excited. I don’t know what I’m doing. I realize I’m holding the spear tightly, sharp tip leading my way. Will they think I’m attacking? Maybe I should drop it. No, if they attack me, I have to be able to defend myself.
I move toward the fire, forcing my feet forward, one short step after another.
The fire pit is a ring of piled stones. Small bones are scattered about. The Springers have eaten here before, perhaps many times.
Over by one of the still-standing walls, I see a stack of round purple fruit, each as big as my fist. I walk to the pile. Some of the fruits are whole, some are smashed in a messy paste of purple skin and yellow flesh. The paste stinks—pungent, rotten, but with a hint of sweetness. I pick up a fruit: it’s firm, bumpy. Yellowish lines run down its length.
Can we eat these? I’ll have Kalle check. I slide the fruit into one of my coveralls’ many pockets.
I turn to see Bishop circling the fire, looking at it closely. Visca and Coyotl crawl over the crater’s lip, join him.
That makes me furious. Bishop disobeyed me, again. The circle-stars are so much bigger than I am, far more intimidating. What if they scare the Springers away?
Walking in a half-crouch, Visca joins me, looks down at the messy pile of fruit and paste. His sweaty, dirty face scrunches up.
“Those smell awful. What are they?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
He uses the butt end of his sledgehammer to slide the paste aside. There is something smooth beneath, still smeared with thick globs of yellow. He kneels, picks it up with thumb and forefinger.
It is a small animal. Skinned.
“Same size as the one they’re cooking,” he says. “Why did they smear it with fruit? For flavor?” He holds it close to his face, sniffs, frowns, then smiles. “I’ll tell Farrar this is their version of cookies and see if he eats it.”
His laugh is cut short by a loud bang that makes me flinch, makes Matilda’s memories say fireworks. In that same instant, something cracks against the old wall.
Visca drops the animal, stands, grips his hammer with both hands as the sound echoes away through the jungle.
A white spot on the wall that wasn’t there before, surrounded by the blue-green moss, like someone chipped away a piece of stone.
Another bang—Visca’s head snaps back.
He falls, limp.
Clumpy splatters of red goo
on the wall’s blue-green moss, wet chunks sliding down yellow vine leaves.
Visca doesn’t move. He stares up. Eyes blank. Mouth open in surprise. A bloody hole above his right eye.
I hear Bishop shout something about running, but his voice is a distant dream, slow and meaningless.
That hole…
No…no-no-no…
I grab Visca, shake him. His head lolls to the side. The back of his skull is gone, blown apart. Chunks of bone dangle from his bloody, white-haired scalp. Brain smashed like fruit—red paste instead of yellow.
Bang: something hits the wall, showers me with bits of stone.
Bishop’s hand on my arm, yanking me up.
We’re sprinting for the crater. I clutch the spear, Bishop has his axe—it’s red, the color of Visca’s blood.
Motion on my right, past the clearing’s broken wall. A Springer, pointing a wood-and-metal club at me.
That roaring bang again—a cloud of smoke billows out the end. Something whizzes past my head, moving so fast I hear it but don’t see it.
We leap over the crater’s edge. Legs kick empty air. Feet hit the downslope, I fall, the spear flies from my hands. The world spins. Something hard drives into my shoulder. Up, stumbling. My spear, there, I grab it and run. Bishop on my left. Up ahead, racing through the shallow pond, Borjigin and Kalle, Coyotl behind them.
My boots, splashing.
A bang, a split-second pause, then a small plume of water rises just in front of me.
Rushing up the far slope. Legs pounding, feet slipping on hidden rubble, up and up and up. I don’t want to die like Visca. I don’t want to die.
Over the lip and into the jungle, plowing through vines and leaves. Branches and burrs tear at my skin, leaves slap at my face.
Another bang, then another, both from behind me. They sound farther away—we’re escaping.
A Springer to my left, close, so close, maybe twenty steps away, half-hidden by wide leaves. Rags tied around arms and chest and legs and tail blend it into the jungle. The flat end of its club is on the ground. It’s jamming a thin rod into the other end, over and over again.
Its fumbling hands toss the rod aside, a hurried motion—the end of the club snaps up, follows me as I run, targets me.
