by Scott Sigler
Bishop shouts commands, telling us to form lines and set up firing positions. People scramble to take cover. I hear the rattle of rifles being cocked, barrels bracing on heavy stone, mutters of “Springer backstabbers” and “godsdamned jungle rats.”
Are the Belligerents attacking? We’re at our weakest, this would be the ideal time for them to strike, but how could they have gotten through the gates?
Far down the wide, straight swath that is Yong Boulevard, toward the Observatory, I see movement through the swirling smoke. Springers, hundreds of them, marching in a tight formation. Flat carts rolling on wooden wheels. Some of the carts have wooden frameworks on top. At first I think they are the trebuchets the Springers used in the Battle of the Crescent-Shaped Clearing to hurl boulders at our spiders, but these frameworks don’t look the same.
Something big quickly moves from the back of the column to the front…two somethings. I can’t make them out…hurukans? Yes, hurukans, with riders. One rider carries a flag that waves slightly in the wind.
But the Belligerents don’t have hurukans, at least not that we’ve seen.
All around me, my people settle in for this unexpected fight. Those who have bracelets and rifles take aim. Those who don’t hunker down and clutch tight to axes, knives, hatchets, spears and other weapons, ready to rush forward on command.
Spears…I don’t have my spear. It was in my house. I am without our symbol of leadership.
A short gust of wind clears the smoke for an instant, and in that instant I see the hurukans and their riders—it’s Maria, atop Fenrir, and Lahfah atop her mount. Riding behind Lahfah, carrying the flag…it’s Barkah.
I drop my shovel. I step out into the street, feet crunching on rocks and cinders.
Bishop screams at me to take cover. I raise my hand toward him, palm out, silently telling him to leave me be.
Maria must have opened the gates, let the Malbinti soldiers in.
Barkah has one arm around Lahfah’s waist. He’s wearing a long blue coat with silver trim, finery that seems out of place amid this wreckage.
His flag…it’s white.
Just like the one I carried the first time I met him.
“Bishop,” I say, “tell everyone to hold their fire.”
Bishop barks orders. My people slowly rise from cover, their weapons pointed at the ground.
Barkah slides off Lahfah’s hurukan. He hops toward me, stops just a few steps away. At least two hundred Springer soldiers stretch down the street behind him. He sets the flagpole butt on the broken stone street. The white fabric flutters slightly.
He coughs from the smoke. I know his moods, his expressions. He’s holding back rage, but there is also anguish and sympathy swirling within him.
“Hem…we help?”
I nod. Perhaps I will never fully understand this alien, but right now he is exactly what we need. I put my right hand on his thin left shoulder.
“Thank you,” I say. Then, I look for Borjigin, see him on his spider, and shout up to him.
“Barkah and his people are here to help us—tell them what to do.”
We don’t bury our dead.
We burn them.
After the fight in the Observatory where O’Malley, Coyotl and others died, and the fire that reduced them all to ashes, we’ve chosen funeral pyres as the way we say goodbye.
We gather around a bomb crater not that far from where my home stood. Okereke covered the bottom of the crater in a neat layer of logs and kindling. Our nine fallen friends lie on top, side by side, shoulder to shoulder.
I wish I had my spear.
Humans and Springers alike line the crater’s edge. Barkah is here, dressed in fine regalia. Lahfah is next to him—she’s filthy, covered in soot and ash.
The Springers who died in the attack have been taken out of the city, to be buried in the jungle. Barkah’s people have their traditions, we have ours.
Walezak is giving a nice little speech. Something about the glory of dying in the service of your fellow citizens. I have a feeling similar speeches have been given for thousands of years, maybe as far back as humanity goes. The living can make it all sound heroic and magical, because the dead can’t argue. Anyway, I’m not really listening. I have one line to deliver, so I pay just enough attention that I don’t miss my cue.
Walezak is so small, yet she delivers her speech with volume, conviction. She stands there in white robes, a lit torch in one hand held up high.
“So we bid you farewell,” she says. “And we say thank you for being part of our lives.”
All heads turn to me. My cue, I almost missed it.
“May the gods welcome them home.”
My people echo my words: “May the gods welcome them home.”
Walezak tosses the torch into the crater.
Borjigin has been experimenting with what he calls accelerants, a too-fancy word for “things that burn really fast.” When the torch hits, flames whoosh up instantly, making all of us take a step back.
“Sorry,” Borjigin calls out.
I look around, but the burst of flame didn’t hurt anyone.
In the pit, Birthday Children bodies burn. When they are reduced to ash, circles will fill in this hole. We’ll put up some kind of memorial, as we did with the melted X that marks the resting place of O’Malley’s ashes and the ashes of those who died with him.
I’m done here.
Some people ride spiders or other vehicles back to the Observatory.
I think I’ll walk.
I’d rather be alone for a little while.
Our world has descended into chaos. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something, something that makes these puzzle pieces fit. No one I talk to has answers.
But there is one person I haven’t spoken to yet. I haven’t spoken to him in a long time.
There are twelve cells in our jail, set in two facing rows of six each. Stone walls, iron bars. No windows. We use these cells as punishment for various crimes. Most people serve only a few days here, sometimes a few weeks. All except for our two permanent guests—Korrynn, and her former partner in deceit, Aramovsky.
I have to walk past her cell to get to his. She’s asleep, or at least pretending to be. I’m not here to talk to her anyway. Aramovsky’s cell is on the same side of the hall as hers. They can’t see each other, but they’re close enough to talk if she ever chooses to do so. She rarely does.
I stop at his cell.
“Hello, Aramovsky.”
He’s lying on his bed, arm over his eyes. At the sound of my voice, he sits up instantly.
“Em. Walezak told me about the attack. Did we lose anyone?”
Walezak is the only person who visits him for anything other than delivering food. One double-ring providing emotional comfort to another.
Aramovsky has changed so much since we put him in here. The hatemonger who started a war claims to have seen the error of his ways. He says he wants to make amends for what he’s done. He seems sincere about that, but I will never trust this man.
Because of Aramovsky, O’Malley is dead.
Yes, I am the one who drove a knife into Kevin’s belly, but that never would have happened if Aramovsky hadn’t betrayed us. Aramovsky made a deal with Matilda; in exchange for power, he sold us out.
“Nine,” I say.
Nine people, gone. We’re down to 266 survivors. The deaths crush me. I am the leader; this loss of life is my fault.
“Nine humans, that is,” I say. “Because I’m sure you won’t be the least bit upset by the fifteen Springers who also died in the attack.”
He winces, as if those words sting. He’s always been a great actor.
“I take no joy in their deaths,” he says. “The Springers are our friends.”
I don’t bother telling him that Barkah’s efforts saved human lives. His soldiers attacked the rubble, clearing it away far faster than we could have done on our own. The carts were cranes, which Borjigin used to stabilize damaged walls
long enough to rescue two of our people who were buried in the wreckage. On our own, we wouldn’t have reached them in time. And then there’s the obvious fact that we were devastated by the attack—Barkah could have easily wiped us out for good. Instead, he helped us in our time of need.
Aramovsky stands and walks toward me. He grips the vertical bars of his cell, leans his face closer. He’s not wearing a shirt. He’s as tall as he was when we first woke—maybe even a little taller—but his skinny days are long gone. There isn’t much to do in his cell, so he exercises constantly: push-ups, sit-ups, stretching, things like that. Muscles ripple beneath his dark skin.
“Em, I know you told me not to ask you anymore, but I have to. When can I get out of here?”
He’s in this cell for two reasons. The first is for the things he did. The second is because if his Springer “friends” get their hands on him, they will chop him into tiny pieces.
“Not now,” I say. “It’s not safe.”
He sags a little. How is it possible I feel bad for Aramovsky? It’s his fault O’Malley is dead. And Coyotl. And Beckett. And the fourteen kids who died in the Battle of the Crescent-Shaped Clearing. And the hundreds of Springers who died there as well. So much blood on Aramovsky’s hands, yes, but to be stuck in this stone cell for over a year? If it was me in there, I wonder if I would be positive and optimistic, like him, or if I’d try to kill myself, like Bello.
“I want your thoughts on our situation,” I say.
“Of course,” he says instantly. “Anything to help.”
I tell him about the bombardment, about the other two ships that will be here soon. I tell him about the Belligerents and Barkah’s inconsistent behavior. I tell him about how Spingate and Gaston act toward each other, about her nightmare, and Bishop’s—and mine.
Before I know it, I am telling Aramovsky everything. The words pour out of me. He might already know much of this from Walezak’s visits, but I don’t care—saying it all out loud is a relief. Hearing my own words helps me mentally catalog the vast problems we face.
He listens attentively, nodding occasionally, asking small clarifying questions. He’s always been a good listener. It’s part of what helped him come to power.
When I finish, his eyes crinkle in thought.
“I know you don’t want to hear it,” he says, “but this is the influence of the God of Blood.”
I want to kick myself. Why did I think this superstitious fool might have real answers?
“The same God of Blood that stood by when we put you in this cell for a year? Doesn’t sound like he has all that much power.”
Aramovsky shakes his head. “It doesn’t care about me. It doesn’t want to protect anyone. It creates chaos, Em. It wants hate. It wants its namesake—it wants blood.”
Chaos. The same word I was thinking when I came here.
“So the God of Blood told you to start a war?”
I say it snarkily, trying to anger him, but he doesn’t take the bait. He stares at me, solemn and grim.
“It doesn’t work like that. The God of Blood is a trickster. It doesn’t speak to you, it shapes your emotions. Only after you defeated me did I see what I had done, did I see how my envy of you grew to become bitter jealousy. Only after I was in this cell did I see how hate slowly took me over, guided everything I did. Now I am constantly on guard against its deceptions, its influence. I’ve learned how to fight it when it tries to manipulate me. You say our people are acting more violent? Then be careful, Em. I know you don’t think the God of Blood is real, but I assure you, it is. I succumbed to it. Others will, too.”
I don’t believe in gods, yet Aramovsky’s words stir fear deep inside me. He believes what he’s saying, every last word.
I think of how the Belligerents suddenly gathered together, individuals from several tribes joining to try and drive us out of Uchmal. Their species against ours.
Is that so different from Aramovsky’s war?
“You hated the Springers,” I say. “Why? Why did you want to kill them?”
He shrugs. “Because they were different from us.”
There is no shame in those words. I can see he no longer feels that way about the Springers, yet he shares his reason for starting a war as if it were no more important than talking about the weather—he’s simply stating a fact.
“Thank you for the talk,” I say.
“Did it help?”
“No.”
But maybe it did, a little. I don’t know why.
“Em, if the aliens attack again, I volunteer to help fight. I don’t want to die in here knowing that I didn’t make up for the awful things I did.”
“You can’t make up for them.”
Those words hit him hard.
“At least let me try,” he says. “Please. Every war needs cannon fodder, right? Better that I die than someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
The pain in his eyes. He hates himself. He wants to be better.
No. I trusted him once. He betrayed me. I will never trust him again.
Aramovsky is in prison, and there he will stay.
My wounds are bandaged. So are Bishop’s. He hurt his leg in one of the explosions. He didn’t show pain or let it slow him down, which is no surprise.
I’ve gathered my council. These are the people that I most rely upon. Bishop, of course, because we are at war and he speaks for the circle-stars. Spingate and Gaston, because they are the only ones who can tell us what happened. Zubiri, because she is smarter than everyone else. Borjigin, because he runs our city, and during last night’s attack he proved himself as a leader beyond any doubt. Barkah, because he represents his tribe of Springers. He and Lahfah are going to stay in Uchmal for a few days, be part of our strategy sessions. His tribe is allied with ours, after all, and we have been attacked.
We’re gathered in the Observatory’s Control Room. We stand around the Well’s waist-high red wall. A glowing hologram of Omeyocan floats above it, complete with the colored dots that represent the Xolotl and the alien ships.
“Goblin and Dragon have sped up,” Gaston says. “They accelerated significantly after the Basilisk’s attack. Goblin will probably be here in a day, the Dragon maybe the day after that.”
Not the news anyone wanted to hear. We thought we had months before we’d have to worry about those ships.
Gaston clears his throat, stands straight and rigid. He stares at a space somewhere above my head.
“The bombing is my fault,” he says. “The Basilisk wasn’t close enough to safely launch shuttles, still isn’t, but I didn’t account for kinetic bombardment. It’s a lot easier to launch rocks than it is to launch personnel. I should have prepared us for that. I did not. I failed.”
His head is back and his chest is out, not in pride, but in acceptance. He’s trying to take the blame. His stance is the stance of a man who refuses to make excuses.
As if he could be to blame—I’m the leader, not him. The failure is all mine.
“You’re not the only one who should have thought of it,” I say. “If I had asked you if it was possible the ship might bomb us, would you have accounted for it then?”
He seems suddenly unsure. He was ready to bear all the responsibility, not pass it off on someone else. Xander Gaston is a good person.
“Answer me,” I say.
He nods. “I might have, yes.”
“You would have,” Bishop says. “Yes, you should have thought they would bomb us. Em should have thought of it, too, and I definitely should have thought of it. I didn’t. There’s nothing we can do about that now. Assigning blame doesn’t bring back the dead.”
Spingate reaches out and takes Gaston’s hand.
“That battle is over,” she says. “Time to get ready for the next one.”
Gaston’s rigid posture breaks. He slumps, so much so he nearly collapses. He was ready to be chastised, to be punished—not forgiven.
Spingate is correct—time to move on and prepare for whatever comes
next.
“Borjigin,” I say, “update us on the wounded.”
He consults his messageboard.
“Eleven people left in the hospital,” he says. “All will be out by tomorrow, except for Delilah Szwarc, who will be in there for a few days. Smith had to amputate her leg.”
I can’t help but glance at Zubiri’s missing arm. Some wounds are beyond even the medical miracles left to us by the Grownups.
“We’re still gathering information on damage to the city,” Borjigin says. “Looks like sixty-six impacts, total. Most were in the residential area. The Spider Nest took a hit, but the maintenance and repair machinery inside is still functioning. We got lucky there. One of the meteors struck our main food warehouse. It was destroyed. Food supply isn’t a major concern, though, as we’d already set up secondary warehouses as a contingency against war or natural disasters. We’ve still got at least a year’s worth of rations, which I’ll further subdivide and store in many places across the city.”
The puzzle pieces spin in my head. The aliens hit the Spider Nest and the food warehouse. Important buildings.
“Gaston,” I say, “is there any way they could know what we had in the Spider Nest and the food warehouse?”
He purses his lips, thinking.
“Depends on their technology,” he says. “We know the Spider Nest can’t fly, but they might not know that. It’s easily identifiable as an orbital-capable ship. Could be the reason they targeted it, to take out a potential spacecraft we could use to attack them.”
“But they didn’t target Ximbal,” Bishop says. “No craters anywhere near our shuttle.”
Gaston nods. “Right. And the food warehouse is a stone building, like thousands of others in Uchmal. I don’t think they could have known what was in there. The food warehouse is big, sure, but larger buildings went unscathed.”
The puzzle pieces spin faster.
“Could the aliens see us?” I ask. “Where people go?”
“Probably,” Gaston says. “Even with really good optics, though, we’d be very tiny, with no detail. Kind of like if you stood on a tall ladder and looked down at an ant hive.”
