by Scott Sigler
We stay in the underbrush, move parallel to the path. Dragging the heavy Springer along with me, I am not the wind anymore. I am noise…I am a target…
Then in front of us, a dead Springer, stomach sliced open, splashes of blue blood and yellowish innards strewn about the wet vines and dead leaves. I recognize the curve of the mouth: Rekis.
Barkah lets out a mournful groan. The sound is heartbreaking.
He points just past the body, at Rekis’s musket. The hammer in the middle, it’s cocked back. It’s loaded.
Noise from behind us: human shouts and calls, bodies moving through the mist. I recognize one of the voices—Coyotl.
Barkah gently pushes me away. He stands on his own two legs, points to me, points to Rekis’s musket.
I have the bracelet, but I don’t know how to use it. I drop the shovel and pick up the gun.
Barkah takes one experimental hop forward. His body shudders in pain, but he pushes past it, takes a second hop.
“Hem, move.”
He wants to run. He wants to hide. That’s the smart thing to do. Just as I need him to end this war before it starts, he needs me to make it out of here alive. The two of us fleeing into the jungle is the smart thing.
But I will not leave O’Malley.
I wave a hand in the direction of the trail.
“Go,” I say. “Move. Escape.”
His two remaining eyes show despair. He doesn’t want to leave me, but he is in no shape to fight.
A rustling to our right. Our muskets rise up instantly, aim at a shaking bush—Lahfah hops out from behind the dark leaves.
I point at him, then at Barkah.
“Get him out of here,” I say quietly to Lahfah. “Move.”
Maybe he understands me, or maybe he just wants to get his prince clear. Lahfah pulls at Barkah, urging him down the trail.
I turn and run into the mist, toward the danger, toward O’Malley. My body feels electric, on edge.
I hear voices. I slide to my right, into the underbrush, crouch between two wide, curving leaves that cover me completely. A small gap between them lets me see down the trail. Moonlit mist surrounds me. This is the perfect spot. The shadows are my friends.
“She killed Beckett!” A Grownup man’s voice. I hear him, but can’t quite see him. “And Visca! She cut off Visca’s damn head! I’m going to kill that little bitch!”
Something about that voice is familiar, but I can’t place it. Another voice answers, one I know by heart, one that makes every inch of me crawl with fear.
“Farrar, don’t you dare.”
That voice…Matilda.
She was on the lumpy ship with Bello. She’s here. She’s come for me, to erase me.
“Hurt her, and you die,” she says. Her voice is coming closer. “Or I’ll make sure your shell dies. I’ll watch you wither away to nothing. Find out if there are any more hopping vermin around here, kill them, then catch her.”
I hear footsteps squish in mud, hear small branches crack and snap—they are coming closer.
Even if they’re old and slow, they’re still faster than the wounded Barkah and Lahfah—if I let Matilda and Farrar pass by, they will quickly catch up to the Springers.
Coming down the trail, through the mist, I see a Grownup. A little shorter than I am, moving with painful, jerky motions: it is Matilda.
And with her, taller, thicker, old and wrinkled but made of solid muscle—that has to be Farrar.
They both wear masks and the suits of thin, shiny metal. Like the one I just killed. Visca…I killed Grownup Visca.
Farrar comes first, a few steps ahead of Matilda. He wears a bracelet on his extended arm, sweeps it left, then right, then straight down the trail. He doesn’t see me. In seconds he will pass by me.
I can end this, all of it, right now. I can shoot him with the musket at close range, drop him.
And then I must kill Matilda.
The musket will be empty. I can use the wide, flat end…I can swing it hard, smash it into her face, knock her down…then I will cave in her skull.
For El-Saffani. For Beckett. For Coyotl. For Muller. For Latu. For Visca. For Harris. For Bello. For Yong.
Matilda is my enemy…kill her, and I will be forever free.
She deserves to die, deserves it for the thousands of humans she has murdered, for her slaughter of millions of Springers, for the culture she tried to destroy, for the ship she transformed into a nightmare, and for the enormous city she turned into cinders.
Farrar and Matilda creep closer.
I stay so very still.
I am the wind…I am death…
Five steps away.
My musket’s hammer is already cocked. I silently raise the barrel, aim it to my left. I won’t even have to extend it past the leaf: Farrar will move right past me.
Three steps.
I put my finger on the trigger.
One step.
On my right, the big leaf rustles, splashing me with beaded rainwater as it is pushed aside.
The red-eyed, masked face of a Grownup is only inches away. How could I have not heard it coming? It is the biggest Grownup I have ever seen, with wide shoulders and huge muscles stretching out the gnarled black skin.
Then I realize how it snuck up on me.
It’s Bishop.
A flash of black smashes into my face.
As I fall, I see the two moons high above—one blue, one maroon—and then nothing.
I wake.
My head pounds and throbs. Feels like it’s full of jagged rocks, grinding against each other.
I’m on my back. Lights above blind me. I blink madly. I try to raise a hand to block the lights, but I can’t move.
“She’s coming to.”
That voice…the hiss of a Grownup, a woman, but so familiar. I almost recognize it.
“Thank you,” says a second voice, one that is unmistakable and full of the promise of death—Matilda.
She has me. Panic bites deep. I struggle to push it back, to stay in control.
I can see a little now. The lights above are embedded in a carved ceiling. I’m indoors. I try to sit up, but something cool, solid and curved pins my wrists, my waist, my ankles.
White fabric to my left, to my right.
I’m in a coffin.
I yank and twist and lurch. I’ve broken bars like these before, and I’m much stronger than I was then. I pull until the coffin shakes with my effort, until my bones feel like they are going to break…
Something is different.
These bars, they’re smooth, not rough against my skin. They aren’t rusted…they’re new.
My arms give out in mid-pull, as if my muscles, bones and skin realized escape is impossible before my brain does.
I lie there, chest heaving, not knowing what comes next.
A head leans in, silhouetted by the bright light. A Grownup. Wrinkled, charcoal skin covered by a mask. Through that mask, I see one bulging red eye, and a white patch where the other eye used to be.
“Hello, pretty girl,” Matilda says.
I can’t move. Death stares down at me.
She turns, looks somewhere to her left. “Lower the sides of the husk. I want to get a good look at her.”
A buzz, then a soft clacking sound. All four sides of the coffin slide down and away. On my left, Matilda, and just past her, a closed golden coffin—it’s been polished until the carvings gleam with a lifelike vibrance. On my right, a waist-high, curved, red metal wall with that strange symbol engraved on it in black.
I’m in the Observatory.
Farther down on my right, two wrinkled Grownups—wearing the same metal-and-mask array as Matilda—are standing on the pedestal platform. One is tall and thin. The other is the shortest I have seen yet; by height alone, I know it is the Grownup version of Gaston.
I look past my bound feet, knowing what I will see—the big, black X, shackles and crown dangling. Behind the X, the mural of an old man, a younger man driving a kni
fe through his chest.
Everything is clean. All the dust is gone.
Where is O’Malley? Did he escape? I hope Barkah and Lahfah got away.
Somewhere behind me, I hear a voice I know all too well.
“You have what you wanted,” Aramovsky says. “Now give me what I need.”
My body surges, thrums with sudden, blind hope.
“Aramovsky, kill her! Get me out of here!”
I thrash at my restraints with newfound strength. He has to strike fast…how many circle-stars did he bring with him? He…
Wait…what did he say?
Matilda continues to stare down at me. I hear footsteps, then I see him, Aramovsky, standing beside her, my spear in his hand.
He is wearing red robes, just like those of the torturers carved into the Observatory walls.
My body starts to shake. I struggle to breathe. Why is he standing with her? Why isn’t he fighting her?
Matilda reaches up a wrinkled, old arm and rests her hand on Aramovsky’s red-robed shoulder.
“You’re lucky, boy,” she says. “You lured my shell away from the others, but she was almost killed by that disgusting vermin army.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Bello didn’t just give Aramovsky the secret of the symbols so he could take over as leader—she told him where to send me.
He gave me up to Matilda.
“We didn’t know there were so many of them,” he says. “If you had grabbed her at the gate, like you were supposed to, she wouldn’t have been at risk.” He tilts his head toward me. “Besides—she looks fine.”
Matilda adjusts her mask, as if the fit bothers her.
“She looks filthy. But we did run late. Sometimes old bodies do not react as quickly as one would like. At any rate, a deal is a deal.” She looks off to her left. “Bring them.”
I hear heavy footsteps approaching. I crane my head up to see—it’s Coyotl, young and strong and smiling, carrying a large, carved box.
I feel heavier, like I’m sinking into this coffin, like I’m drowning in darkness. Coyotl has been overwritten—same as Bello, same as Beckett. Coyotl walks and talks and looks like my friend, the one who taught me how to sharpen the spear, but my friend is gone forever.
He sets the box down on my thighs.
“See, Matilda?” he says. “I told you she was in good shape.”
A whining tone to his voice. He is desperate to please her, but Matilda is far from pleased.
“Your body has far less damage, Uriah,” she says to him. “Look at her. She hasn’t fixed anything. Some of those scars are never going to come out.”
Coyotl shrugs. “You might have to hose her down first. All that camouflage on her face…somehow she fooled herself into thinking she’s a knight.”
A knight? Is that what the circle-stars are really called?
“The folly of youth,” Matilda says. “Such beauty, yet she doesn’t care. I was like that once. I won’t make that same mistake again. I’ll treasure my youth. This time, I’ll savor every last moment of it.”
Coyotl reaches into the box, pulls something out, holds it up for Aramovsky to see—it’s a silver bracelet. The ceiling lights play off the white stone, gleam against the long metal point.
“Twenty of them,” Coyotl says.
Aramovsky slowly reaches out a trembling hand, takes the bracelet.
“Twenty,” he says. “With these and our war machines, we’ll slaughter the Springers. How do I use it?”
Matilda pulls Aramovsky closer to her. I see his lip curl slightly, involuntarily.
“Remember our deal,” she says, her words syrupy sweet. “When you attack, you will not use people on the list I gave you. Their creators are waiting—those shells must not be risked.”
He hasn’t attacked yet. There’s still time.
Aramovsky nods. “I understand. And should I still send you Bishop, Gaston and Borjigin?”
“Yes,” she says. “And make sure you do it before the battle. We need to take out the strongest first, a few at a time, so there are no more accidents. Make sure they come alone, and through the entrance I showed you. We’ll gas them there so they don’t put up a struggle—these children are dangerous.” Matilda looks down at me. “You cut off Visca’s head with a shovel? Really, my dear, that’s so…well, so savage.”
An insane cackle bubbles out from behind her mask.
Aramovsky lifts the box off my thighs. He starts to turn away, then stops, turns back, leans close.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says. “The gods want this for you.”
He means it. He believes every word.
I spit in his face.
He stands, shocked and angry, spit clinging to one closed eye. He wipes it away with the sleeve of his red robe.
“You’ve always thought you were smarter than me,” he says.
“Not smarter,” I say. “Deadlier. Tell your gods I’ll send you to meet them very soon.”
Coyotl guides Aramovsky away, somewhere behind me. They must be walking to the racks with the empty plastic bins.
“Leave her be,” Coyotl says. “I’ll walk you out and show you how to use the bracelets.”
My brave words ring hollow. The reality of my situation pushes down on me. I have failed in every way. Barkah’s people outnumber mine a hundred to one, maybe more, but those bracelets will even the odds. Aramovsky is only going to use people that don’t have a living Grownup ready to take over their body. Many of those that fight will die, sacrifices to the God of Blood. Those that do not fight will be rounded up a few at a time, then their minds will be wiped, their young bodies used as a vessel for ancient evil.
Just as I will be used.
Matilda delicately reaches for my face. I thrash my head away, lurch at my restraints, but there is no escape. When her hand comes close enough, I bite at it.
She pauses, her fingertips just out of reach.
“Biting, again?”
Matilda walks to the platform, grabs something there, brings it back. She’s holding a thin red cane. She shows it to me.
“Remember when Grampa used one of these on us if we cursed? You know what he always said—Spare the rod, spoil the child.”
A flick of her wrist raises it, another flick brings it down on my stomach.
Agony engulfs me. My body convulses: my muscles tighten so suddenly and completely that wrists and ankles and hips smash against the bars holding them down. I burn, I’m burning up I’m going to die I don’t want to die I—
She lifts the rod and the pain stops.
My breath comes rushing back. I taste blood.
“Silly girl,” Matilda says. “You bit through your lip. I suppose that serves you right, but don’t damage yourself any further.”
The withered hand reaches for my face. I don’t want that pain again, so I close my eyes and stay still.
Rough, dry fingers on my forehead, sliding across my skin.
“Look what you’ve done to my pretty hair,” she says. “I can’t wait to feel a brush slide through it once again. It’s been so long.”
This dead thing is petting me. I’m terrified and disgusted. I’m hateful and alone.
She makes a tsk-tsk sound. I feel her pull something out of my hair.
I force myself to open my eyes and look at my killer. If I am to die, I will die facing my enemy.
She’s holding a bit of twig.
“As soon as the transfer is done, I’m going to take a long bath,” she says. “I’m going to clean up this filth you’ve caked on yourself. This is no way for an empress to look.”
“Brewer said he was on our side,” I say. “Why did he lie about the shuttle being the only way down here?”
“He didn’t lie. There used to be five shuttles. During the rebellion, Brewer’s people destroyed all but one—then he locked us out of the hangar. When you made me take you to the hangar, I didn’t think it would be open, but Brewer unlocked it for you. That was the first time I’d laid eyes on
a shuttle in two centuries.”
“Then what about Bello’s ship?”
“We built it,” Matilda says. “We thought we might need a way down to Omeyocan someday, and two hundred years is a lot of time to make contingency plans. Brewer ruined the shuttle fleet, but there is so much of the Xolotl he doesn’t control, where he can’t see what’s happening. The ship we made isn’t as elegant as the one you stole, but it was good enough to get thirteen of us safely down to the surface. While you dealt with Bello, the rest of us came here and prepared.”
I look her up and down, take in her old, ruined body. How could she have reached the top of the Observatory in order to get down here?
She keeps petting me. I have to clench my teeth together to resist biting her again.
“I’m sure you’re wondering about all those steps,” she says. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember how unimaginative I was at your age. There are other entrances to this place, pretty girl. Do you think I wanted to spend my next life trudging up and down three thousand steps? If you and your Bishop had walked around the temple and looked carefully, you would have found a normal entrance that leads right to this very spot. No symbol required, no steps involved.”
She called it a temple. Just like Aramovsky did.
My head hurts so bad…it feels like my brain has been crushed and smashed, and this sense of failure is making it worse.
“Coyotl and Beckett were overwritten,” I say. “Is Muller still alive?”
“You sending those three out was a wonderful break for us. And with a functioning pentapod, no less. Little Victor Muller is locked up in an Observatory prison cell, where he’ll stay until we retake the shuttle. We will take the shuttle up to the Xolotl instead of the awful ship we came down in. Aramovsky said you didn’t take any joy rides, fortunately, so there should be enough fuel for the return trip.”
The taller of the two Grownups on the pedestal platform calls out: “We are ready.”
That’s the woman. Her voice, so old, yet so familiar…
Please, don’t let it be her…please don’t let it be her…
“Is that Spingate?”
Matilda laughs. “Spingate was on Brewer’s side. I had Bishop cave in her skull with one of those silly tools she liked so much. Don’t worry, pretty girl—Aramovsky will make sure your Spingate is armed and in the first wave he sends against the vermin.”
