by Scott Sigler
That name again: Tlaloc. Is it a real thing?
“The call for what?” I ask. “To come to Omeyocan?”
“That and so much more. The call foretold the Abernessia invasion, gave us the location of Omeyocan and the schematics for the ark that would take us there.”
Wait…she said “schematics.”…that word means plans, blueprints….
“The Xolotl…the church didn’t design it?”
“The ship jumped between galaxies, darling-dear. Beyond any technology known to man. Only the word of the gods could bring such a miracle.”
I thought gods were made up, but something sent a call across the universe, a call that drew my people here. Did that call radiate out from Omeyocan like the signals from our radio telescope? If so, that signal spread equally in all directions…it must have hit other races.
The call contained schematics…
Which is why all the ships look the same.
My tongue feels swollen. My stomach roils. Humans were called here; so were the other races—called here by something on this planet.
“The alien ships look exactly like the Xolotl,” I say. “Is that what the Springer ship looked like?”
Matilda nods.
Religion brought us here. Did religion bring the other races as well? Do the ships orbiting our planet have their own “founders” who sent thousands of their kind here to fight and die?
“That call your church is based upon, the call wasn’t just for humans,” I say. “The other races heard it, too. That’s why all the ships look the same.”
Matilda laughs. “Did you figure that out yourself, darling-dear? As the Founder foretold, paradise is promised, but never given. Paradise must be earned with blood and sacrifice.”
She knew this was a planet of endless war. When did she learn this—before the Xolotl departed, or at some point during the journey? Did Brewer know? Did all the Grownups?
There is so much more to learn, but I’m wasting time. Somewhere in the jungle, our enemy gathers.
“I have to leave,” I say. “I’m giving orders that none of my people are to talk to you or anyone on the Xolotl. I don’t trust you, Matilda.”
“Don’t go into the jungle,” she says. “Please, Em, don’t go out there.”
Now she uses my name?
“I have to go. That’s what a leader does.”
Matilda shakes her head.
“We might be able to send fuel down to you in six days. Just don’t…you can’t…all…”
Her image is fuzzing out in bursts of colored static.
“…they’re trying—” she says, then her image puffs away.
Did something go wrong with the broadcast?
The air above the pedestal again flares to life.
But it’s not Matilda.
It’s a man.
Not a blackened, gnarled Grownup—an adult man. Older than me, yes, but the way we’re supposed to get old.
His image crystallizes. His smile is one of pure joy, total amazement.
“I can’t believe it,” he says. “It’s you.”
His long black hair is tied up in a topknot. I see a few strands of gray in there. Small wrinkles line his eyes. Something comforting about looking at his face.
He wears a blue robe tied over one shoulder, simple but clean, with folds that seem very precise. The word toga pops into my head. Around his neck hangs a thin steel necklace dotted with bits of colored glass.
“It’s you,” he says again, laughing.
“You know me?”
“Well, I know of you. Victor was right. I can’t believe it! You’re Matilda Savage.”
He says her name with reverence. I am not her and I will never be her, but I can explain that later. If there is a later.
“And who are you?”
“My name is Marcus.”
He pauses, looks down. I see his hands—he’s counting on his fingertips. I hear him mumbling something over and over.
Eight, eight, eight, eight…
No, he’s not saying eight…he’s saying great.
“I think I need maybe thirty-five greats.” he says. “Hard to say for sure.”
He smiles, warm and wide.
“I’m Marcus Savage, your great-great-great—and then some—grandson.”
Brewer told us the Xolotl was built to house thousands of people.
Babies…
Generation after generation after generation.
“You’re a vassal,” I say.
Still smiling, Marcus shakes his head.
“Our ancestors were, yes, but that word doesn’t apply anymore. The New People are free people.”
Vassals had children. So did some of the Cherished.
Matilda’s daughter that Brewer spoke of…could she have had kids of her own? Could Marcus Savage be my actual flesh and blood?
Do I have family after all?
“I’m not Matilda. I’m Em.”
“Well, of course,” Marcus says. “Victor told me.”
That name stops me cold. I feel like I’m being pummeled senseless with words and concepts, a flurry of strikes coming so fast I can’t parry or duck.
“Victor…Muller?”
Marcus nods. “Would you like to talk to him?”
I stare blankly. I don’t know how to react, I don’t know what to think.
Marcus takes a step to his left.
A Grownup steps into view.
“Hello, Em. That is the name you prefer, is it not?”
“Sure. That’s fine.”
The gnarled creature shakes its head slowly.
“So young.” His voice is raspy, like that of all the Grownups, but there is a strange tone to it….he sounds…happy?
I’m looking at the ancient version of the boy in my spider crew. This Grownup, “Old Victor,” he has the same gnarled skin of Matilda and Brewer, but it’s lined with dozens of gray streaks—scars. They crisscross his arms and shoulders, mark his face. Some of the scars are ragged, like bolts of lightning forever frozen in time, but others are intricate patterns—carefully planned designs, not the remnants of random wounds.
On his wrinkled black forehead, the ragged gray lines form a circle-star.
“I haven’t seen you like this in centuries,” he says. “You are so beautiful. And your hair…has it really been a thousand years since I touched it?”
A shudder washes through me. That this thing would ever touch me fills me with disgust.
This is all too much.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” I say.
“We knew Brewer took an antenna down to you,” Old Victor says. “We’ve been waiting for you to use it. When you did, we cut into the broadcast signal.”
“So you’re not working with Matilda?”
Marcus laughs. “Hardly.”
“I was on her side once,” Old Victor says. He holds up a hand, turns it, showing me the gnarled skin. “I won the right to do this to my body. So did many who fought for her. But I saw the error of my ways and have fought against her ever since.”
I adjust my grip on my spear. I suddenly feel like an idiot, standing here holding it, posturing with it. I want to be in the jungle, with Maria. I want to fight. Fighting is simple. This? I don’t even know what “this” is.
“The New People,” I say. “How many of you are there?”
“Five thousand, three hundred and sixty-four,” Marcus says without a moment’s hesitation. “Including the child that was born yesterday.”
Over five thousand people are still living on the ship?
“Not possible,” I say. “We didn’t see any adults like you when we were on the Xolotl.”
Marcus holds his hands shoulder-width apart, like someone showing the size of a fish he caught. “Say the Xolotl is this big.” He shortens the space between his hands until they are almost together. “You saw only this much of it.”
“Brewer controlled the abandoned section in the prow,” Old Victor says. “That’
s where you were. Matilda controls the middle section, which includes the bridge. We control everything beyond that. Until you took the shuttle, we didn’t even know there were any receptacles left onboard.”
I open my mouth to ask him about his own receptacle, then stop. If he’s telling the truth, there’s a possibility he doesn’t know about our Victor. Maybe that’s safer.
I suddenly want Spingate here with me, to explain this. The size of the Xolotl is already beyond my ability to imagine.
“But five thousand people…how can you feed that many?”
Marcus laughs. It’s a delightful sound. I think he laughs often.
“The Xolotl originally supported eight times that many,” he says. “Feeding five thousand isn’t hard. Many fields and orchards have died out, but more than enough remain. And we get meat from cattle, chickens and pigs.”
Pigs. The same kind that killed Latu, no doubt. One pig was enough to feed twenty of my people. And Brewer showed us images: hundreds of cows in pastures, thousands of chickens in cages.
The Wasp troopships we captured. Gaston is trying to learn their controls. Zubiri is studying the fuel they carry, seeing if she can convert it for Ximbal’s use. If either of them succeed, could we fly back to the Xolotl and bring some of those animals down here? Could we raise herds of our own?
I’m getting ahead of myself again. If we can’t defeat the Wasp army, what’s the point of bringing down livestock?
Five thousand people…
“We’re at war,” I say. “We need help. This city is big enough for all of you, for a hundred times your number. Help us fight and we can—”
Marcus holds up a hand, stopping me in mid-sentence.
“Em, the New People can’t survive on Omeyocan. You’re modified to breathe the air—we’re not.”
Marcus and his kind weren’t “created,” like I was. They are susceptible to the same poisons that can kill the Grownups.
But still, so many people…
“The Grownups—I mean the Cherished—they can survive down here for a time with masks. Could you use masks and help us fight? What weapons do you have? We need spiders, bracelets, cannons…anything you’ve got.”
Old Victor shakes his head. “There are few weapons aboard. And no ships left with which to deliver them.”
“But Brewer said there were fighter craft.”
“There are,” the Grownup says. “But they are interceptors, made for space only. They can’t fly in atmosphere. I’m sorry—we can’t help you.”
I had a momentary flicker of hope: more soldiers, more weapons. Old Victor’s words extinguish that flame, leave me even more dejected than before.
“Then we have nothing to discuss. I have a war to win.”
“You can’t win,” Old Victor says. “We know about the second wave of troopships. You need to find a way to come back up here and leave Omeyocan behind.”
Marcus smiles. “We will welcome you with open arms.”
Leave Omeyocan?
Wait a second…that’s what Matilda wants, too.
I finally contact her, refuse her demands, and these two just so happen to “cut in” to her signal?
My anger flares, instant and overwhelming.
“You’re working with Matilda.”
Marcus shakes his head. “No, of course we aren’t! We just don’t want to see you get killed!”
“Omeyocan is my home.” My voice rings with hate, drips with violence. “We’ve bled for it, died for it. How dare you suggest we abandon our birthright!”
“Yes, you have bled.” Old Victor’s tone is that of a soldier who has seen much. “Yes, you have died—if you stay, you will continue to do so. Even if you beat this ground army, another alien ship is coming. More may come after that. I believe this war is not meant to be won, it is meant to be continuous.”
His words echo my own fears. We can win the next battle and still lose the war. And if we win this war, will there just be another? We’re running out of equipment. There aren’t even 250 of us left—we’re running out of people.
“Tell me why the ships come here,” I say. “Why all this war, this killing?”
Old Victor’s shriveled shoulders shrug.
“The scriptures ordained that the promised land would not be given—it had to be earned with blood and sacrifice. That was the message that the Founder received from Tlaloc. The alien races obviously received the same message.”
Tlaloc, the mysterious “god” that called the races here.
Blood and sacrifice…
…god…
…blood…
The God of Blood. If this Tlaloc is real, could it be the God of Blood that manipulated Aramovsky, that enraged Bishop, that caused Spingate to murder Bello, that almost made me kill Spingate? I felt it, guiding me, pushing me. How long can I deny it is a real thing?
“The killing won’t stop,” Old Victor says. “Find a way to escape while you still can.”
No. This is a trick, and I will not fall for it.
“You want me to leave the place I was made for, and come up there so you can hand me over to someone whose sole purpose in life is to wipe me from existence? No thanks. You bastards created us specifically to live on Omeyocan. This planet breathes in our very bones. We’ll beat the Wasps. We will survive.”
Old Victor’s red eyes seem to dull a little. He sags in place. He’s getting tired.
“Omeyocan is a place of forever war. I beg you, Em, believe me.”
“If this planet is so awful, then why don’t you take the Xolotl and run away?”
“Matilda’s power is weakened, but she still controls the bridge,” Old Victor says. “That means she controls where the Xolotl goes. She doesn’t just want you, Em, she wants Omeyocan. She wants what was promised to her. Bring your people up here, together we can overthrow her and we can finally leave.”
Ah…could that be the real reason they want us to come up? They want us to fight their battles for them.
I wish Brewer were still here. Maybe he could tell me if Victor is genuine. But without Brewer, there’s no way to know.
“You’re either a liar working for Matilda, or a coward who fears her,” I say. “Either way, we’re not going anywhere.”
I’m suddenly grateful I hold the spear after all. I thump the butt against the floor.
“We will defend our home.”
I don’t wait for them to spew more lies. I go into the hall and tell Peura to break the connection, to make sure no one but me contacts that ship.
I tell him what will happen to him if he disobeys me.
From the terrified look on his face, I know he will not.
I leave him to his work and set out to find Maria.
D’souza’s Demons and Lahfah’s Creepers gather on the plaza. Six snake-wolves—three from each platoon—stand idly by, pincers picking up unwrapped grain bars from a pile and popping them into their wide mouths. They love that food even more than the Springers do, it seems. It keeps the mounts calm as their riders talk to me and Barkah.
We stand over a beautiful, hand-drawn leather map spread out on the plaza tiles. The map has Uchmal at its center. It’s not as detailed as the electronic maps, of course, but we can carry this one with us into the jungle. Barkah drew it. He has so many talents.
Maria makes a sweeping gesture that takes in the areas to the south and the west.
“The Khochin and Podakra tribes live here, so we won’t run into them,” she says. She taps a spot just north of Uchmal. “This is Schechak. We’re going around that.” Finally, she taps a spot far to the northeast, beyond the area drawn on the map. “This is all Galanak territory. We’re looking for the Wasps, but we have to be careful—the Galanak hate the Malbinti.”
Lahfah, Barkah and the two other Springers present all spit on the ground. The Malbinti is Barkah’s tribe—they hate the Galanak right back.
“So we stay quiet,” Maria says. “Stick to your grid pattern. There is no excuse for you to miss o
ur scheduled rendezvous. If you don’t show up, the rest of us will assume you’re dead and look in your assigned grid for the enemy. We have an enormous area to cover. Everyone understand?”
Human heads nod, Springer tails slap against the plaza tiles.
“And do not engage,” I say. “If you’re attacked, run. Our mission is to find out what the Wasps have, not to kill them one or two at a time, understand?”
Nods and slaps.
“I’ll ride with Maria,” I say. “I’m in command, but if she gives an order, you all follow it without question. Let’s go.”
The riders walk to their mounts for a final check of harnesses and gear.
Barkah hops to Lahfah. He doesn’t want her to leave, to put herself at risk, but he understands what’s at stake. Besides, if he tells her not to go, she’ll go anyway, and that will make him look bad.
Barkah is exceptional at not looking bad.
He’s wearing a violet coat decorated with blue glass beads. He’s taken to painting his tail in streaks of orange and blue, which somehow makes him seem even more regal.
Lahfah, on the other hand, wears jungle rags, with knives and hatchets stuffed into her belt. Barkah looks like a king. His queen looks like a killer.
The two of them nuzzle close. They intertwine their tails. They press closed eyes together. That’s the Springer version of kissing.
I wish I had someone to kiss me goodbye, but Bishop doesn’t want to talk to me. He’s furious I’m joining the scouting mission. He says my leadership is too valuable to risk, that I should stay behind Uchmal’s walls.
He’s right. I know he is, but I have to get out of here. I need the open spaces.
I tried to leave Bishop in charge—he declined. He has too much to do prepping for the city defenses.
So, while I’m gone, Borjigin is our leader.
I walk to Maria and Fenrir. She’s stroking his tawny flank, cooing to him like he’s a housecat and not a 640-kilo apex predator with pincers that could snap her head clean off.
“Come pet him,” Maria says.
“I’d really rather not.”
“You’re going to be on his back for days,” she says. “Maybe weeks. I hope you understand just how much jungle is out there.”
