Alight

by Scott Sigler

  “No! You can’t make her fight—she’s pregnant!”

  “Amazing,” Matilda says. “You hormone-engorged little brats didn’t waste any time, did you? Rutting around like animals. How about you, Em?” She spits my name like it’s a curse word. “Were you a sinful slut like Theresa? Did you steal my virginity from me?”

  “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know about anyone else, just Spingate and Gaston.”

  “What?”

  The word is a shout—commanding, insistent—that comes from the pedestal platform. The little Grownup steps onto the floor and walks toward us. He stops next to Matilda.

  “Captain,” she says. I’m surprised to hear respect in her voice…does this tiny man intimidate her?

  He stares down at me through his mask, two red eyes thrumming with excitement and intensity.

  “The Spingate shell is pregnant with my child?”

  I don’t know what to say. Will they want to kill her and the baby, or will the truth keep her off the battlefield? This creature is a thousand years old, but there has to be some bit of the Gaston I know still in there.

  I nod.

  He turns to Matilda. “I will tell Aramovsky to bring her to me.” Without waiting for an answer, he walks off into the shadows.

  One-eyed Matilda seems rattled. She gestures to the platform, to the lone Grownup standing there.

  “Obviously, that is not Theresa Spingate,” Matilda says. “But I’m sure you know this one’s shell. May I present the lovely and talented Doctor Kenzie Smith?”

  The Grownup on the platform bows stiffly. She starts to stand, then freezes, a gnarled hand going to her back.

  “Oh,” she says. “Dammit, that hurts.” She slowly straightens, holds on to a pedestal for balance. “Let’s get this started. I need to sit down soon.”

  Matilda rubs her nasty hands together. The skin is so rough I can hear it.

  “Finally, we’re ready,” she says.

  “Not you, Matilda,” Smith says. “I’m afraid Bishop hit your shell on the head a little too hard. There could be a concussion. We have to wait so that I can make sure there isn’t any damage I need to fix first.”

  Matilda’s one eye swirls madly. She’s furious. She glares at someone in the corner. I crane my head up to see: the hulking form of Old Bishop. He’s been standing there the entire time, silent, unmoving.

  “You stupid oaf,” she says to him. “I told you to be careful.”

  I hear concern in her hiss of a voice, perhaps even fear. Brewer said the longer we were alive, forming our own memories and connections, the less chance the process had of working. But it worked on Bello, Coyotl and Beckett, so it will likely work on me—unless my grinding headache causes problems, somehow.

  “I’ve waited so long,” Matilda says. “A few hours more won’t matter.”

  She gives my hair a final pat.

  “Since you’ve been so difficult, my dear, let’s watch something together while we wait. Kenzie, open it.”

  The golden coffin to my left makes the same sound mine made. The sides lower. My heart shatters. I want to wake up, I want all of this to be a horrible dream.

  It’s O’Malley.

  He’s lying on white linen, held down by the same kind of bars that hold me. He’s blinking, just coming awake.

  “O’Malley! It’s Em! Look at me!”

  He turns his head, terror wrinkling his face. He sees me, recognizes me, then starts looking everywhere—up, left, right, down toward his feet. He cranes his head back, trying to see behind him.

  “Em…are we in the Observatory?”

  On the platform, one of the pedestals starts to glow.

  “Pre-imprinting preparations complete,” Smith says. “We’re ready. Bring in Kevin.”

  I’m confused for a moment—Kevin O’Malley is right next to me—then with a chest-ripping blast of horror I understand.

  And so does he.

  “No,” he says. “Don’t do this!”

  Past our feet, I see Coyotl helping a masked Grownup walk toward the black X, a Grownup so old and withered he can barely move.

  “Is it time?” the old one says. “Is it finally my time?”

  The voice sounds ancient, like it’s made of dust and worm-eaten wood. And yet, I recognize it, instantly.

  It is the voice of Kevin O’Malley.

  In the coffin next to me, my friend starts to scream.

  Behind the clear mask, Old O’Malley’s red eyes appear cloudy, unfocused.

  Matilda pets my hair.

  “Just watch, little one,” she says. “Your turn is coming soon.”

  I shake my head, over and over. “Please, don’t kill him.”

  O’Malley pulls at his restraints. His eyes blaze with animal panic. He grunts desperately, throws himself left and right.

  Matilda is standing between my coffin and his. She turns, raises the red cane, snaps it down on his stomach. His back arches so suddenly and severely I wonder if his spine might snap. His throat grinds out a guh-guh-guh-guh sound that makes me scream in helpless rage.

  She lifts the rod.

  “You will not hurt your body, not now,” she says to him. “Struggle again, you get the rod again.”

  Coyotl mostly drags Old O’Malley to the black X. Old Bishop comes over to help. Together, they raise the shriveled Grownup’s arms, lock the shackles around his wrists, then restrain his ankles.

  Bishop removes Old O’Malley’s mask. Those disgusting folds of wet flesh—they either cover the Grownup’s mouth, or they are the mouth. Sickening to look at.

  Coyotl slides the black crown onto the withered creature’s head. Rheumy red eyes stare out with a combination of confusion and excitement. The old monster starts to cough.

  “Hard to breathe…I need my mask.”

  Coyotl gives him a hard pat on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Kev…in a few minutes, the mask won’t matter.”

  The old one’s red eyes seem to go clear for a moment. He stares at my O’Malley.

  “By the gods,” the old thing says. “It’s…it’s me.”

  The young and the ancient lock eyes.

  A low growl starts in my O’Malley’s throat, builds to a scream as he starts to thrash against his restraints.

  Matilda lowers the rod.

  My O’Malley again goes rigid. He shudders and bucks, tries to beg her to stop but his mouth won’t form words.

  “You horrible BITCH,” I roar. “Stop it or I’ll kill you!”

  Matilda turns to me, smacks the rod down on my thigh. The charge sets my body ablaze. I try not to scream—I fail.

  She lifts the rod.

  “No cursing,” she says. “Children should know the rules.”

  Old O’Malley is half giggling, half coughing.

  “My shell is so strong,” he says. “So much vigor!”

  Everything grows blurry as tears fill my eyes.

  “Please, Matilda!” I’ll beg, I’ll plead, I’ll sacrifice myself, whatever it takes. “Let him go and I swear I’ll let you do it to me.”

  My O’Malley’s head turns fast to face me, his features contorted with both fear and anger. “Em, no! Don’t promise them anything!”

  Even now, with blood on his lips from where he bit through them, his cheeks streaked with tears, he is beautiful. How could I not have told this boy that I loved him? I am desperate for him to live, even if that means my own death.

  I tear my eyes away from him, force myself to look at her.

  “Matilda, please.” My voice is weak, subservient. “I swear, I’ll do whatever you want. I won’t fight.”

  She pats my head, makes that tsk-tsk sound with her unseen mouth.

  “Oh, my dear, you can fight all you like—it won’t make any difference.”

  “Preparations complete,” Old Smith calls out. “Ometeotl?”

  “Ready for instructions, Doctor,” the room answers.

  “Perform transference power-up and preflight checks.”

  The enti
re room hums, a long droning sound that makes my hair stand on end.

  Coyotl walks over to my O’Malley. The overwritten circle-star leans close, the expression of gleeful hate something I would have never thought could exist on his face.

  “This is going to hurt,” Coyotl says. His words ring with a sick joy. “So much.”

  My O’Malley can’t fight anymore. He has nothing left. All he can do is cry.

  “Em, please,” he says in a whisper. “Help me.”

  Sobs rack my body. I can’t do anything—I am powerless. Leader, empress, monster, friend, enemy…when it matters most, I am none of those things.

  I am nothing.

  I am just a circle.

  I am empty.

  Old O’Malley coughs, harder than before, struggles to draw breath.

  “I hope…my old self hasn’t changed too much,” he says. “I was never a crybaby like that.”

  Matilda laughs. It sounds like my laugh.

  “Kevin, you’ve been a lying, manipulating, backstabbing crybaby for a thousand years,” she says. “Some things don’t change.”

  The room darkens. Old Smith raises her arms, and they are bathed in color. The same lights that made Spingate glow like an angel soak into Old Smith’s cratered skin, make her look like a moving statue that has disintegrated and blackened with age.

  “Ometeotl, commence final bio-scan of receptacle.”

  “Scanning, Doctor Smith.”

  The humming increases, almost drowns out my O’Malley’s sobs and Old O’Malley’s cough.

  What little rage that still burns inside me is extinguished by a wave of hopelessness. My friend is going to die. He’s an arm’s length away, if only I could reach out to him. Right here, right now, Kevin O’Malley will cease to exist. And I can’t stop it.

  “Bio-scan complete, Doctor Smith,” the room says. “Zero risk factors. Ready to commence upon your order.”

  Old Smith lowers her glowing hands. “Commence transference.”

  The humming grows louder, fills the room, bounces off the ceiling and walls.

  My O’Malley thrashes, but not of his own will—his body is reacting: twitching and trembling, quivering and lurching.

  They’re killing him.

  The hum goes on forever. It fills my head, rattles my ears and teeth. It blocks out everything. I want my hands loose, not so I can escape but so I can drive my fingers into my ears, try to block that sound of death.

  And then, the volume lowers, lowers, lowers…the humming stops.

  I look at my friend. He’s on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling. His chest heaves. He blinks rapidly, shakes his head. He wiggles his nose, curls his lips, clicks his teeth as if he’s trying out his face for the first time.

  Please-please-please let it have failed…

  O’Malley’s head turns toward me. He smiles—but it isn’t his smile.

  “Hello, young lady.”

  In that instant I know my friend is no more. I’m numb. I feel nothing. I am as cold as a corpse.

  The monsters have won. And I’m next.

  Matilda walks to his coffin. She presses a small green jewel set just behind his head. O’Malley’s restraints clack open. He sits up, stretches out his arms, rubs his legs, looks at his fingers like they are made of magic and wind. His eyes shine with wonder and awe.

  “I can’t believe it,” he says. “There’s no…I feel no pain. I knew my old body hurt, but until this very moment I hadn’t realized I spent every minute of every day in pain, and now…nothing. It’s gone.”

  He swings his legs over the side, lets his feet dangle.

  The tears in my eyes make him shimmer and wave.

  Matilda puts a hand on his shoulder.

  “Slowly at first,” she says. “Your body is fine, but your mind must get used to moving it again.”

  O’Malley brushes the hand aside, all but pushes Matilda out of the way. He slides off his coffin-table and stands.

  “Praise be,” this new person says. “Praise be to all the gods, it worked.”

  A desperate, haunting moan of anguish makes my hair stand on end. At the X, the gnarled, restrained Grownup O’Malley lifts his head. His frail lungs try to draw in air, air that is killing him. He looks around the room, disoriented.

  “It didn’t work,” he says. “We…we must try again. I’m still trapped in this hideous body. Oh, I hurt so bad, even worse than before.”

  I don’t understand. It did work, I can see the young O’Malley and I know he is not mine.

  Young O’Malley starts to laugh.

  Old O’Malley’s head snaps up. For the first time, the red eyes clear all the way, blink rapidly.

  “No,” he says. “This can’t be.”

  Young O’Malley walks closer to his old self, does a little stumbling dance.

  “Come on, now, Chancellor! You knew this would happen.”

  The wrinkled monster looks around the room madly. I realize that he is looking for someone to help him.

  “Wait,” he says. “I didn’t think it would be like this.”

  Young O’Malley reaches toward Bishop, palm up. The hulking monster hands over a sheathed knife. O’Malley takes it by the hilt, then grips the sheath and pulls the blade free.

  The knife—ornate, golden, bejeweled—looks exactly like the knife in the painting behind the X, the one with the young man driving the blade into the old man’s chest.

  Young O’Malley smiles wide, points the tip at his former self.

  “If it makes you feel better, old man, this is exactly how I thought it would turn out. Which means it’s exactly how you thought it would turn out, too. My, how interesting to talk to one’s self!”

  The old monster pulls at the restraints, but he was weak even before this ordeal began.

  “Please,” he says. “I’m not ready. It’s not fair. I want to live! Why did I spend a thousand years in agony if I don’t get to live?”

  So much pain in that voice, so much betrayal—I almost feel sorry for him. The overwrite, it doesn’t move the consciousness of the old person, it copies it, leaving two versions. The old version remains trapped in its fragile, failing body.

  Young O’Malley flips the knife in the air, catches it by the hilt. He walks closer to the X.

  “Don’t be sad, Old Me. You got to live for a thousand years—I’ll get to live for a thousand more.”

  From behind the fleshy folds hiding its mouth, the old monster screams nonsensical words, babbles and begs, but it does no good. Young O’Malley places the point of the knife on his old self’s chest, then leans in. The gnarled skin punctures. Red-gray blood leaks down. There is a moment of hesitation, then a crack as the knife punches through bone and sinks deep.

  The old monster twitches.

  “No,” it says in a faint hiss. “I was supposed to…to live…forever.”

  The head droops.

  The old man moves no more.

  Young O’Malley—now the only O’Malley—pulls the knife free. He wipes the flat of the blade against his dead former self, scraping free the red-gray blood. He slips the knife back into the sheath, then slides the sheath into the belt of his black coveralls.

  The lump in my throat changes, becomes a fist—I turn my head to the side just before I vomit bits of spicy meat all over my coffin’s white linen and onto the stone floor.

  “Kenzie, she vomited,” Matilda says. “Is her brain all right? Does she have a concussion?”

  Old Smith shuffles off the pedestal platform. Her gnarled fingers grip my face, turn my head left, then right.

  “Hard to tell,” she says to Matilda. To me, she says, “How is your head?”

  “It hurts,” I say. “So bad.”

  Matilda huffs. “Like she’s going to tell you the truth, Kenzie. Don’t be gullible.”

  “So your former self can lie,” Smith says. “Well, isn’t that a surprise?”

  “Get her ready.” Matilda’s voice rings with eagerness. “I’m done waiting.
We’re going to do it now, concussion or not.”

  The diseased, rotten stink of Smith’s fingers combines with the acrid smell of my vomit; my stomach threatens another round. There’s no food left to throw up, but my body doesn’t care.

  “Wait a little longer,” Smith says. “Matilda, you only get one chance at this, and Bishop did knock her unconscious.”

  Smith releases me. I can still smell her fingers.

  Matilda glares at Bishop. “Thank you so much for that, lover.”

  Lover? The old me and the old Bishop…lovers?

  “You wanted her here,” he says. “And here she is.”

  It’s the first time I’ve heard the huge old monster speak. The sound tears at my heart. It is his voice, the voice of the boy who kissed me at the waterfall, the voice of the boy who—when all was lost and I was sent off on my own to die—whispered to me that he would send help. It is his voice, matter-of-fact and to the point, but it is also not: it is breathier, shorter…it is tired.

  Matilda huffs in disgust. “Maybe you did it on purpose. Maybe you tried to hurt her so I couldn’t transition!”

  Bishop says nothing.

  Matilda sighs. “Fine, we will wait.” The old creature looks down at me. The mask hides the fleshy folds that in turn hid her mouth, but I know she is smiling—I can tell by her one remaining, red eye.

  “Soon, my pet. Soon we will be one.”

  The nightmare gets worse. It envelops me, makes me want to give up, to shut down forever.

  My Bishop lies in the coffin to my left, where O’Malley died.

  In the coffin past him, my Gaston, and in the fourth and final one, my Borjigin.

  Old Bishop, Coyotl, O’Malley and a few other Grownups I don’t know dragged them in, unconscious, locked them down. They are all awake now, the sides of their coffins lowered. Borjigin sobs, seems unable to accept that Coyotl is doing this to him. My Gaston cursed at everyone until Matilda went to work on him with the rod.

  He’s not cursing anymore.

  We are all about to be overwritten. We will be erased.

  Spingate is here as well. She’s shackled to a heavy ring mounted in the wall. She’s crying. She knows she can’t do anything for anyone. None of us can. We are all helpless.