by Scott Sigler
The new O’Malley struts around the room, laughing and joking. Same body, different soul—he is an abomination.
The hulking, ancient form of Old Bishop stands to my left, at the head of my Bishop’s coffin. Most of the other Grownups seem shriveled, all used up, but not Old Bishop—he has their gnarled skin, red eyes, mask and metallic life-support frame, but a thousand years of life haven’t made him any less lethal.
My Bishop stares up at him.
“I’m going to kill you,” he says to his progenitor.
Old Bishop nods. “I know you would try, but the restraints are far too strong. It is best if you make your peace with the gods.” The ancient monster reaches down, places a hand on my Bishop’s shoulder. “I am sorry it has to be this way.”
My Bishop sneers. “Maybe it’s better that I die now than live and become you. You are no warrior—you are a coward.”
Old Bishop stares for a moment, then hangs his masked head.
My Bishop senses his words have hit home. He tries to rise up, but of course, he can’t.
“At least let me fight for my life,” he says. “Don’t you want to know if you could beat me?”
Old Bishop’s red eyes swirl. He looks at my Bishop’s face, then above his head—I see a green jewel there, the same one Matilda pressed to release O’Malley.
The massive Grownup gently reaches for it. I hold my breath. His wrinkled, black finger rests lightly on the jewel.
“Don’t be stupid, lover,” Matilda calls out. She’s on the pedestal platform with Smith. “Do you really want to prove what a big man you are by damaging the body you’re about to inhabit? Leave him be—it’s your turn to transfer.”
Old Bishop’s hand drops to his side.
“I want to live,” he says to my Bishop. “I am sorry.” He lumbers to the black X. “Uriah, Kevin, prepare me.”
Coyotl scurries over, as does O’Malley. It is devastating to see their young faces so eager to help, so excited about killing off another of my friends.
My Bishop sniffles once. Then twice. No, not sniffling…he’s smelling the air. I don’t smell anything.
Old Bishop removes his bracelet weapon. He hands it to O’Malley, who slides it onto his own arm. Coyotl shackles one of Old Bishop’s wrists, O’Malley the other. They lock down his ankles.
Old Bishop looks at each restraint as he tests it, giving it a short pull. His head suddenly snaps up, eyes darting about the room.
“Release me,” he says.
O’Malley throws back his head and laughs. “No cold feet now, Ramses old chap. I know you’re afraid you’ll be stabbed in the heart—because you will be—but the you that does the stabbing will enjoy it, I promise.”
Old Bishop pulls hard on his shackles; the metal rattles so loud that O’Malley takes a surprised step back.
“Release me now, I smell something.”
And then I smell it, too—burned toast.
The Springers are here.
Coyotl’s nose wrinkles: his eyes widen.
“Oh, shit,” he says.
A flash and a deafening roar from somewhere past my head.
Coyotl spins in place, falls.
Borjigin cries out, as if he still doesn’t understand that the Coyotl he knew was already gone.
O’Malley dives away from the X, hits the ground and rolls into a crouch at the foot of my coffin.
Old Bishop rattles the X even harder.
“Kevin, come back,” he screams. “Let me out of here!”
Another gun roars. My ears ring. The overpowering scent of wet charcoal fills the room, singes my nose.
I still can’t move. Spingate screams in fear. Gaston is cursing for someone to let him go. Borjigin is crying, the sound somehow heartbreaking despite the insanity and death that surrounds me.
Springers screech a grinding war cry that sets my teeth on edge.
Another gun roars, then another.
O’Malley pops up. He levels his arm on me, using the bars across my ankles to steady his bracelet, and fires off a blast of white light.
I try to kick my feet to throw off his aim, but I can barely move my legs. He drops back down behind the coffin. He’s using me for cover. If the Springers chance a shot at him…
I look left: my Bishop’s arms trembling, every huge muscle popping out, his face scrunched in quiet effort. Past my feet, Old Bishop is doing the same, pulling at the metal restraints that hold him to the X.
Through the chaos, I hear a voice that is not human.
“Hem! Hem!”
Barkah has come for me.
“I’m here! Can’t move!”
The sharp shriek of metal breaking, metal dying—two curved pieces sail through the air as my Bishop’s right hand flies up.
Then a sound almost exactly like it, but this one comes from the black X—Old Bishop’s left leg kicks free. Pieces of broken ankle restraint clatter across the floor.
My Bishop fights with the thicker bar around his waist. He slides his fingers under it, lifts, grunts, but he can’t get leverage.
I remember how Matilda let O’Malley out.
“Bishop, the jewel above your head! Push it!”
He reaches up, fingers frantically searching the fabric above him.
Another Springer gunshot.
Coyotl is somewhere on the floor, screaming in agony.
Old Bishop grunts and jerks, making the entire X-frame rattle. His right foot comes free. He plants his feet on the stone floor and twists his body, pulling hard on his right wrist. I see red-gray blood trickling down from where the shackle cuts into his withered flesh just before that shackle gives way.
My Bishop finds the jewel-button: his restraints pop open. His face sheened with sweat, he leaps off his coffin-table and slaps the jewel above my head, releasing me.
“Free the others,” he says, then launches himself toward his progenitor.
Old Bishop braces and heaves—the entire X-frame rips free from the stone floor. He bends at the waist and twists sharply: the heavy X slams into the oncoming younger boy, sending him tumbling.
I slide off the table and squat down at the foot of my coffin. O’Malley is gone, I don’t see him. The room is filling up with swirling musket smoke.
As my Bishop gets to his feet, his progenitor tears off the last. The two men rush at each other, slam together at full speed, punching and kicking.
A Springer is at my side, pulling me away from the fight. Its skin is a lush purple, but it is not Barkah. I don’t recognize this one. Three yellow eyes plead with me to move.
By the curved red wall, a Grownup I don’t recognize blasts a Springer with white light; even as that one cries out and is torn to pieces, two more Springers leap high and kick out, knocking the Grownup to the hard stone floor. I recognize one of them: Lahfah. Ceiling lights flash off his hatchet as he brings it up and whips it down, again and again, arcs of red-gray blood splashing across the floor and walls.
Musket smoke swirls, stings my eyes, burns my throat.
Three Springer guns roar almost at the same time, bangbangbang—on the platform two pedestals shatter, erupting in flames that wash over Dr. Smith. Her withered body ignites like a bonfire, flames shooting up to the curved ceiling.
Matilda isn’t on the platform….where is she?
The ceiling sparks…the fire catches, it spreads—the ceiling is not stone, but something else. This entire room is about to become a furnace.
The battle rages around me, Grownups fighting for their lives, Springers taking revenge for generations of slaughter.
I stumble to Gaston’s coffin-table. He’s still trapped, and coughing so violently he’s splattering spit on his mouth and chin. I press the jewel above his head—he’s off in an instant, dashing to the wall where Spingate is chained.
I free Borjigin. He rolls off his coffin-table, hits the ground hard. He pushes himself up, starts toward the sound of Coyotl’s screams.
I grab Borjigin, stop him, shout in his face.
“That’s not Coyotl. Your Coyotl is dead! Help me with Spingate!”
Wet-eyed Borjigin stares back at me for only a second. In that brief moment, I see despair in his soul. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve hard enough to turn the skin instantly red, then he nods.
“Stay low,” I say, and push him toward Gaston and Spingate.
The smoke was annoying before—now it’s dangerous, a thin cloud that roils across the ceiling in noxious curls. The Springer next to me coughs hard, wide cheeks puffing out.
Gaston and Spingate are pulling hard on the ring that holds her shackles to the wall, but the ring is anchored in stone and does not budge. Borjigin and I join them—even with all four of us, it makes no difference.
The Springer pulls his hatchet from his belt. He uses the butt end of the blade like a hammer, attacking the stone around the ring.
“Harder,” Gaston screams at him. “Hit that godsdamned bastard!”
The stone behind the ring splits. Gaston re-grips the ring, plants one foot against the wall, screams and leans away, using every muscle he has.
The ring rips free. Spingate grabs it, holds it—her wrists are still bound by the shackles attached to it, but now she can run. Gaston’s eyes dart everywhere, looking for a way out.
The pedestal platform is fully ablaze, tall flames angling off the ceiling. Sweat pours from my skin.
Through the smoke, I see a Springer by the bin racks, waving madly at me—it’s Barkah.
I push Gaston and Spingate toward him. “Go to that Springer, now. He will help you.”
Gaston makes no heroic comment about how he’ll stay and fight, because this fight doesn’t matter to him—all he cares about is getting Spingate out, getting their baby out. Coughing hard, he wraps his arm around her waist, guides her toward the racks.
I shove Borjigin after them. He’s not a fighter—all he can do is get in the way.
Smoke is everywhere. I can’t see friend or foe. Where is Bishop? And where is Matilda? I’m going to kill her, I’m going to end this.
I crouch down low. My new Springer friend crouches next to me, its eyes narrowed against the burning smoke. Blinking madly, it rises up slightly to look around—and is engulfed by white light.
Heat so intense I feel it cook my skin before my body reacts on its own, throwing me away from it—the Springer is ripped apart, a living being one second, splattering piles of sizzling meat the next. Blue blood splashes out, all over the floor, all over me.
I sit there, unthinking, staring at my fingers. They are spotted with beads of blue, each drop reflecting the raging fire above, like a thousand tiny jewels all dancing in perfect time.
That could have been me…what do I do, what do I do…
Hands grab me, yank me to my knees. It’s Borjigin, coughing so hard that spit flies from his open mouth. He drags me away from the mess and the sickening smell of scorched Springer.
“Come on,” he grunts. “I’m not leaving you here.”
I’m almost to my feet when he cries out, falls down next to me, holding the back of his head. I turn to face the danger—a fist drives into my nose. I stumble back, slump to the floor.
“You two aren’t going anywhere.”
It’s O’Malley.
I’m dizzy, can’t focus. I taste blood on my lips. I roll to my hands and knees, try to keep from falling to my side as the world spins.
O’Malley stands in front of me, aiming his bracelet-point somewhere into the room. This close, I see him work it, see how he flicks his fingers straight out, flat as a board, and a split second later the bracelet flashes with white light.
I hear another Springer scream.
O’Malley laughs. He’s enjoying the slaughter. On my hands and knees, my eyes are at his waist level. There, in his belt, the ornate knife he used to murder his creator.
The boy I love is dead.
Now I must kill him a second time.
I reach out, feel the knife handle against my palm an instant before my fingers curl tight around it. One pull—fast, firm—and the blade slides free from the sheath.
O’Malley felt the tug. He looks down, sees the knife in my hand. He opens his mouth—to say no, maybe—but he doesn’t have time to say even that.
I stab. The knifepoint slides through his coveralls into his belly, angles up inside his chest. The blade sinks deep, doesn’t stop until the hilt thumps against his body.
He makes a noise—half-sigh, half-cough.
“You killed him,” I say.
I pull the blade out. Blood spills instantly, spraying on my hand, my sleeve.
Red blood.
“I loved him, and you erased him.”
I stab him a second time, again driving the blade up and in.
O’Malley stares down with an expression of disbelief. Wide eyes. Open mouth. He shakes his head, just a little, as if to say, This can’t be happening.
His expression changes, melts into something else. The eyes look at me with warmth, with love.
It’s the real O’Malley…my O’Malley…and he smiles.
“Thank you,” he says.
He collapses. I catch him as he falls. His back on my thighs, my arm under his head. He’s shivering. His blood…it’s everywhere. The knife is still sticking out of him.
“Kevin! Hold on! I’ll get you out of here.”
He grabs my shoulders with what little strength he has. His fingers dig into my coveralls.
“Too late,” he says. He tries to take a breath, but a spasm cuts it short. A shudder courses over him, through him, and his face shifts from love to pure hate. The same eyes glare at me, but it is not the same person. From deep in his throat, he growls out words.
“You always were a bitch, Savage.”
His neck relaxes, his head tilts to the side.
Dead eyes stare out.
He was still in there.
Borjigin hauls me up, tries to drag me to the racks, to whatever way out is hidden in the shadows.
I knock his hands away. I grab O’Malley’s silver bracelet, slide it clear from his hand.
“Hem!” It’s Barkah, screaming to be heard over the roaring flames. “Hem, move!”
I stand, crouching against the blistering heat that blazes down from a fire-engulfed ceiling. My lungs burn and rebel—I cough so hard I can’t draw a breath.
The only Grownups I see lie motionless on the blood-splattered floor. None of them are Matilda. Or Gaston.
Four Springers stand victorious. Coughing, bloody, wounded, exhausted—at least three of their kind are dead, but they won.
Through the smoke and flames, I see a final battle still under way.
By the ruins of the X, the old Bishop straddles the young one, raining down blow after blow, smashing gnarled, black fists into ravaged pink flesh. Any one of those punches would shatter me completely.
I slide the bracelet onto my right wrist. I feel it squeeze down on my forearm.
My lungs burn, my eyes water, the heat is cooking me alive, but I am not finished here.
Old Bishop stands on wobbly legs. His hands are a mangled mix of torn flesh and blood.
On the stone floor in front of him, my Bishop struggles to move.
The worm of rage writhes inside my chest.
I stride toward them. Borjigin and Barkah fall in at my sides.
Old Bishop stares at me, mask cracked and askew, chest heaving, red eyes blazing with pride.
“I won,” he says. “I beat him.”
I point my right arm at him. “And you still lose.”
He looks down again, then to the pedestal platform, where the corpse of Smith is lost in the raging column of fire. He looks at the broken X, then back at me, and I understand—even if I didn’t have him dead to rights, he has no way to overwrite his defeated, younger self.
The big, broad shoulders sag. The shine of victory leaves his eyes. He is old, sad, exhausted.
“I am so tired,” he says. “I hurt. All my life, I tried to do the
right thing. I followed orders. But those orders…they were for the wrong things. I followed them anyway.”
He grabs his mask, tears it off, tosses it aside. He points down at my Bishop, at what was supposed to be his new body.
“Help him choose the right thing,” the ancient man says.
My scorched throat and sizzling lungs won’t let me answer him, so I nod once.
He puts his shoulders back and stands rigid.
“I am Ramses Bishop, and I am ready to finally rest.”
I flick my fingers forward. My arm tingles with deep pinpricks, then the white light flashes out and tears the black monster to pieces.
I am the wind…I am death.
I stumble, have to grab a coffin-table to stay upright. Borjigin and Barkah help my Bishop up. His face is a swollen, bloody ruin. I can’t believe he’s still alive. He coughs up globs of blood.
The other Springers swarm around us, push me stumbling through the thick smoke. I can’t see anything, so I let them guide me. I have to focus just to stay on my feet.
The sound of the flames recedes slightly, then a door creaks shut and the blaze’s roar drops to a dull crackling.
A torch flares to life. We are in a narrow hallway carved out of the Observatory’s rock. The Springers gently urge us on.
Only now do I get a good look at Barkah: leg bleeding, a blood-spotted patch over his middle eye, the other two eyes half-lidded from pain and exhaustion, his every move a source of agony. He didn’t run and hide—as badly as he was hurt, he found more of his kind and came to rescue me.
I glance at the Springer faces, and see one other that I recognize.
“Hem,” Lahfah says.
He isn’t laughing anymore. How could he, after what we’ve been through?
I gently check my nose—even the lightest touch fills my face with pain. I think it’s broken.
Bishop gently pushes Barkah and Borjigin away from him.
“I can stand on my own,” he says.
He leans a hand against the wall, takes a rattling breath, then starts walking.
We all move down the hall. I try to understand what just happened, parse out the madness of the last few minutes. O’Malley is gone (he was still in there and I killed him I KILLED HIM). I didn’t see Matilda’s body, or Gaston’s—I’m positive they’re both still alive. I tried to send Borjigin away, assuming he was weak, but he came back for me.
