by Scott Sigler
“Gaston, get out of the way!”
Gaston looks down into the shaft.
“You okay, Huan?”
“Get out of the damned way or I swear I will stab you in the balls!”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Gaston says, then walks a few steps along the circular top, his attention again returning to the display above him.
I squeeze Peura’s shoulder. “Keep trying,” I say, and walk to the Well.
Huan Chowdhury climbs up the rope, climbs up fast. He falls more than swings over, lands hard on the floor. I take a knee next to him.
“You’re trembling,” I say. “Did you see something down there?”
He’s in a fetal position, shaking hands close to his chin. He wears a canvas climbing harness over his black coveralls. Every inch of him is covered in dirt and mud. His big teeth chatter. Not from the temperature, from fear.
“Huan!” I give his shoulders a shake. “I don’t have time for this! What did you see?”
“Didn’t…didn’t see anything. Just felt something, down there with me.”
He’s acting like this because he got spooked?
I grab his harness, use it to sit him up. I thump his back against the Well wall, maybe a little too hard. People like me face down guns and hatchets, fight the real enemy, while people like Huan cower at shadows? Whatever he has to tell me, it better be good.
“You didn’t see anything,” I say. “Tell me what you felt, then.”
“Been going through the tunnels.” He’s talking slowly, forcing his words through quivering lips. “End of the tunnel…wasn’t hard dirt…I was able to push through it into another tunnel complex, one I hadn’t seen before. It’s wet. Wet and warm”—his eyes lock onto mine—“it felt like breath.”
My bottled-up anger swells, it pushes, looking for a way out.
“And that’s it? You felt a warm draft and you panicked?”
He shakes his head hard. “No, it was more than that, I…I heard a voice. It was my mother. She said Don’t be afraid.”
His mother? She’s probably been dead as long as my mother has. Could he have heard Springers? They were in the Observatory long before we were. Maybe there’s another way into those tunnels. But no, if it was Springers, there’s no way Huan could mistake them for his own mother. He must have imagined it.
“Forget the voice,” I say. “Did you actually see anything?”
He shakes his head again. “No. I was too scared, I ran.”
He missed his godsdamned mommy. I needed this idiot boy to find information critical to our survival, and all he can do is piss his pants because he’s afraid of shadows? What would he do if he ever faced real danger?
I yank Huan to his feet, shove him toward the door.
“Get out of my sight, you coward.”
Still trembling from the fear of what he saw down there—and, perhaps, his fear of me—Huan sprints out of the Control Room.
“Goblin approaching firing range,” Gaston says. “Em, if you’re done intimidating little kids, think maybe we can focus on the alien race that’s trying to kill us?”
The yellow dot of the Goblin creeps closer to the red line. When it gets there, I will give the order to fire—thousands of intelligent beings will die. It is an order I do not want to give.
There has to be another way.
I run back to Peura. The boy is still trying. He’s on the verge of hyperventilating.
“You can’t reach what isn’t there,” I say. “Instead, can you use the antenna to talk to the alien ship?”
“I…I don’t know. I’ll try.”
“Don’t bother,” Gaston says. “We’ll blow that ship out of the sky before they can launch an attack. Besides, they’re aliens—even if we can reach their ship we can’t communicate with them.”
Gaston doesn’t even want to try to stop this battle from happening? That’s not like him. Or rather, that’s not like the Gaston I used to know. Is this really how he wants to be, or is this unknown anger affecting him like it affected Bishop and Spingate?
Like it affected me.
I lean in close to Peura. “Don’t worry about Gaston. Just try, all right?”
He nods, and once again his hands are a glowing blur.
On the big display above the Well, the Goblin has almost reached the red line.
“Ometeotl,” Gaston says, “show me the Goblin’s probable maximum firing distance, and also maximum probable distance from which it can launch atmospheric-capable craft.”
Two more lines appear. A purple one—marked MISSILE ZONE—appears a bit inside the red one that signifies Goff Spear’s outer range. A blue line—marked LAUNCH DISTANCE—is farther inside the purple.
Gaston reaches out and touches the purple line, his fingers kicking up multicolored sparkles. He turns to look down at me.
“If the Goblin gets here, they can start firing. We don’t know if they’ll ignore the Observatory like the Basilisk did.”
“Peura, hurry,” I say quietly. “We have to talk to them now!”
He looks at me, wide-eyed, shaking his head. Stupid Em—this kid’s nerves are shot, pressuring him isn’t going to help.
“Take a breath and keep trying,” I say, forcing myself to sound calm. “Just do your best.”
Peura nods and gets back to work. I see sweat beading on his forehead, wetting his black hair.
“The Goblin is entering Goff Spear range,” the room calls out.
On the display, the glowing yellow dot touches the red line.
“Em, we’re ready,” Gaston says. “Give the command to fire.”
I close my eyes. I don’t believe in gods—I don’t even believe the God of Blood is real and I felt it compel me to do violence—but for the first time I pray, pray to a god I know nothing about.
Tlaloc, please, help us—please don’t make me murder thousands, make them talk to us.
There is no answer.
“Em, stop screwing around,” Gaston says. “The Goblin is almost in missile-launch range.”
I open my eyes. Sure enough, the yellow dot is past the red line and approaching the purple one.
“I’m sure I reached them,” Peura says. “I’m sure of it. No response.” He looks at me, shaking his head. “Em, I know they received our signal. If they wanted to reach us, they could.”
Gaston glares down at me. “Em, give the godsdamned order to fire!”
The Goblin is almost to the purple line.
Every race that’s come here has come to kill. The race populating the Dragon seems to control the Goblin, and even if they didn’t, why would either race be any different from the Vellen, Springers and humans? These aliens are coming because of the same signal that brought us.
I tried to communicate. They didn’t respond.
If I wait, my people die.
Kill your enemies and you are forever free….
“Ometeotl,” I say, “fire the Goff Spear.”
The room thrums, pulses. I hear that buzzing sound, drowning out all other noise. Like before, my hair stands on end, my teeth and bones vibrate.
The room’s air is sucked out and rushes back in.
The noise ceases, as does the thrumming vibration.
A red streak flashes out from Uchmal toward the Goblin.
“Increase magnification on target ship,” Gaston says.
The display above him changes. We see the Goblin’s green front, the yellow symbol etched there. I realize that I will never get a chance to know what that symbol means.
The wait is agonizing. The red streak draws closer. It seems an eternity before our weapon connects. The Goblin swells, swells, swells…then rips apart.
“Target destroyed,” the room says.
Cathcart and Peura whoop with joy. Gaston shakes his fist at the image of the ship breaking into a hundred pieces.
But something is wrong….
“Possible contact,” Ometeotl says. “Significant interference from the detonation. There may be a
solid mass beyond it.”
“Oh no,” Gaston says. “Ometeotl, tell Zubiri to reload the Goff Spear, right now! And ask her how long until we can fire again!”
Spingate takes a reactive step back from her pedestal. Her arms wrap protectively around little Kevin.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
No one answers.
I walk to the Well wall and look up at Gaston.
“Gaston, what is it?”
He points to the wreckage of the Goblin.
“The Dragon,” he says. “We couldn’t see it because it was in the blind spot behind the Goblin.”
Through the cloud of wreckage, I see the Dragon’s plain white flat front coming closer.
Our radio telescope’s waves radiate out in an ever-expanding sphere—when that sphere hit the Goblin, anything behind the ship was invisible to us.
The evil of what I just witnessed…
“They used the Goblin as a screen,” I say. “They knew full well we would destroy it. They sacrificed thousands of lives to get closer to us.”
“Zoom out,” Gaston says.
The image above him changes: Omeyocan, the blue LAUNCH DISTANCE line, beyond that the purple MISSILE ZONE line, the red line of the Goff Spear’s outer range.
The Dragon’s green dot passes through the red line.
“Grandmaster Zubiri is reloading,” Ometeotl says. “Eight minutes, twelve seconds before the Goff Spear can fire again.”
“Gods,” Spingate says. “That’s not enough time.”
We watched, transfixed, as the green dot passes through the purple MISSILE ZONE line.
And keeps going, without firing any weapons.
I understand their strategy—the Dragon is going to launch landing craft, then retreat out of our range before we can destroy it. They will try, anyway—they don’t know how long it will take us to reload. Whatever race is on that ship, it’s a race that is willing to gamble.
The Dragon closes in on the purple line.
“Ometeotl,” I say, “do you acknowledge my absolute authority?”
“Yes, Empress Savage.”
“Then I transfer authorization to fire the Goff Spear to Captain Xander Gaston.”
“Order understood and implemented, Empress Savage.”
The green dot reaches the purple line.
As soon as it does, dozens of tiny green dots fly away from it.
“Ships launched,” Ometeotl says. “Twenty-one small fighter craft and six larger craft—most likely transports. Approximately seventeen minutes until they reach Uchmal.”
I can do no more here.
“Gaston, don’t activate the antimissile batteries until you get my signal, understand?”
He nods without looking at me. “I know the plan, Em. And if I get a shot at Dragon, I’ll kill it. Now get out there and kick some ass.”
Is this the last time I will see him? The last time I will see Theresa?
I look to the platform. Theresa’s eyes meet mine.
“I believe in you,” she says. “Please come back to us.”
I hope I do.
Without another word, I leave to join my troops.
I rush from the Observatory into the morning light. Beneath the Ximbal’s wings, Bishop waits with two dozen members of our army. Humans and Springers both. These are the squad leaders who will soon rush to their units and give the final commands.
Uchmal is about to become a battleground.
High above, Omeyocan’s atmosphere eats up the Goblin’s pieces. That ship traveled an unknown, impossible distance to bring its people here. Now it is nothing but streaks of burning metal.
I’ve wiped out another race.
Em Savage: bringer of extinction.
Our emergency siren fills the air, but already another sound is fighting it for dominance—the echoing roar of approaching aircraft.
Far off to the west, high in the sky, I see a cluster of tiny black dots.
We don’t have long.
I sprint across the plaza to our shuttle. The squad leaders part, close in behind me as I stand next to Bishop.
I face my fellow soldiers. Sunlight glints off muskets and rifles, bayonets and knives, hatchets and long-pointed bracelets, farm tools and spears. Farrar is stone-faced. The younger circle-stars look excited but worried. They might soon be fighting for their lives. I wish Maria was here, but her unit is out in the jungle.
Oddly, I feel no doubts about the coming battle. We will not back down. We will not run and hide.
I was born a circle. A slave. Now I am a leader. A warrior. A general.
I am a killer, and it is time to kill.
“We didn’t ask for this fight,” I say to my soldiers. “The antenna is working. We tried to contact the Goblin, talk to whoever or whatever is on that ship—we were ignored.”
My soldiers exchange glances. They’re scared, of course, but now they think this fight might have been avoided if only the enemy had spoken with me. That makes my soldiers mad.
Good. Anger is better than fear.
I pound my fist against my chest, three times, punctuating my words.
“Let…them…come! We are ready. We, who have sweated here, bled here, died here. We who have been here for centuries, and we who were created for this planet.”
The Springers who understand my words translate for those who do not. Heads nod. Faces tighten with commitment, with the hard knowledge that war has come to our doorstep.
“Remember our strategy,” I say. “We know this city, they do not. Use upper floors to your advantage. Enter a building, identify your exits, then find windows and fire down upon your enemy. When they come up to get you, melt away and do it again. Remember the signals—horns and flags both. Once the fighting starts, things will break down. You’ll have to think for yourselves. You—”
“Hem!”
The single, hoarse syllable cuts me off.
I turn. Lahfah is mounted on her galloping hurukan, a handful of Springers hopping along behind. All of them are filthy, their jungle rags so covered in ash that wisps of the stuff trail along behind them.
She’s supposed to be out in the jungle. I start to get angry, wonder what she’s doing here, then she raises her hand high—she’s holding a spear.
My spear.
Lahfah brings the hurukan to a halt a few steps away. She dismounts, offers me the spear. The shaft is lightly charred in a few places, but still looks solid. And the blade…it’s undamaged. The edge catches a glint of red sun, and I know that Lahfah just sharpened it.
I take the weapon. Char instantly blackens my fingers and palms, but I don’t care—I have my spear.
How long has she been searching the ruins for this?
She knows what the spear means to me, to all of us. With it comes belief—I was ready to fight, now I’m ready to win.
“Thank you,” I say.
“War,” she answers. From the mouths of Springers or humans, it seems, that word sounds identical.
From a pocket of my coveralls, I pull out a strip of white cloth streaked with dried blood. I tie it around my head. My soldiers stare at it, take in Halim Horn’s null-set symbol.
“Today, we are not Springers,” I say. “We are not humans. We are not circles, circle-stars or anything else. We, all of us, we are the people of Omeyocan.”
I raise the spear. This piece of wood and metal that has come to symbolize so much to both races. Every eye stares up at it, draws strength from it.
“Today, we will fight for what is ours,” I say. “Why will we win? Because we live here! To your positions!”
For a moment, the combined battle cry of two peoples drowns out the incoming rockets’ roar, then my soldiers rush to their assigned places.
—
Victor and I crouch on a fifth-floor balcony in the southwest quadrant. We’re high enough up that I can see over the walls. I watch the incoming ships streaking in from the west above the jungle canopy—twenty-one thin fighters that are all sh
arp angles and points, and six fat troopships packed with enemy soldiers.
The ships are almost in range of our tower cannons.
Bawden is on the ground floor with our spider, hidden from view.
In buildings to the north and southeast of me, lookouts in balconies stay low, watching my every move. They’re waiting to relay my signals.
The roar of the incoming ships is so loud there is almost no point in talking—I’d have to scream in Victor’s ear to be heard at all.
Our towers open fire.
Bright white cannon beams lace the sky. One of the smaller enemy ships explodes in a cloud of reddish-orange flame. The wrecked vessel tumbles down and disappears into the yellow jungle.
Unlike Brewer’s lumpy ship, the fighters shoot back. They pulse with amber flashes, give birth to tiny missiles trailing long cones of gray smoke.
Those missiles close the distance in seconds. Two of them smack into the five o’clock tower, boom, boom. The top of the tower vanishes in a billowing fireball, thick chunks of stone spin away in all directions.
I know who was manning that gun: Isaac Hachilinski and Cassie Nauer. Two shuttle kids. Two circles. They lived barely a year, and now they are gone.
The wave of attacking ships passes over the wall. Another fighter explodes. A tower beam lances through one of the fat troopships—trailing flame, it plummets into a ten-layered ziggurat.
Missiles snake into the seven o’clock tower. The fireball sends stone flying, launches the silvery cannon—now twisted and warped—whirling end over end into the city, where it crashes into a soot-caked building.
Joannes Tosetti and Liselot Wieck. Dead.
We’ve already lost two towers. The fighters roar above me, a swarm of death heading for the center of the city. I can wait no more.
I lean toward Victor, hold up one finger.
He stands and waves his orange flag: down-left-down-up-left. The north lookout sees this. She stands, faces the Observatory, then uses her own flag to mimic Victor’s sequence.
As enemy fighters bank and swerve above Uchmal, flag waver after flag waver quickly relays the simple message back to Gaston and Spingate, safe in the Control Room’s depths.
