by Scott Sigler
A duel? Is that what he’s suggesting?
“Stop this,” I say. “Put the godsdamned spear down, right now. We don’t settle our differences by killing each other over them.”
Victor’s eyes don’t leave Bishop. Neither does his spearpoint.
I’ve had enough of this. I step toward them.
“Victor, I’m warning you for the last time, you—”
Bishop raises a hand, not toward Victor, but toward me.
“Stay out of this, Em,” Bishop says, his words a low growl. “This little pup wants to meet me in the circle? I accept his challenge.”
Victor takes a step back. Bishop smiles at him.
All around, heads nod. Murmurs of approval, a tone of excitement, eager expressions.
My people want this fight. Do they hope one of the boys will die?
“This is madness,” I say. “Don’t you all see? The Grub is messing with our heads. We don’t solve problems by fighting. This isn’t us!”
Bishop heads for the exit. He’s on his way to the plaza, to the sand-filled training circles.
Victor gives me a sidelong glance.
“People do solve problems by fighting,” he says. “It’s called war. This isn’t any different.”
With that, he follows Bishop, and everyone follows him, hungry to see blood spilled. Even Maria and Borjigin rush out.
I said no and it didn’t make a difference. My words are suddenly meaningless.
In seconds, I am left standing with only Gaston and Spingate.
What do I do now?
The feeling of hopelessness drives through me. Everything is falling apart at the last moment.
“We have to stop this fight,” Spingate says.
I shake my head. “We can’t.”
But maybe I can stop them from killing each other.
We head for the training ground.
An army of bloodthirsty alien warriors is bearing down on us, and my people watch two of our own fight. If I give orders for everyone to return to their posts, those orders will be ignored—my leadership will be even further compromised.
I can do nothing but watch, just like everyone else.
The night is clear. No clouds. Omeyocan’s twin moons blaze down. A few people brought torches. Flickering firelight illuminates the training pit sand, reflects off razor-sharp spearheads. Bishop and Victor circle each other, legs bent, spear tips out in front of them. Bishop is bigger than the younger boy, but the way Victor moves: lithe, smooth, no wasted energy.
Victor is a great fighter. I have fought both against him and side by side with him. I know how fast he is. Someday, perhaps in a few years, he could be the best of us, even better than Farrar and Bishop.
Today is not that day.
I just hope Bishop doesn’t accidentally kill him.
They warily move around the training circle’s edge, booted feet pressing into the sand. People are packed in around them, only a few steps away from the circle, so close that if either fighter is knocked out of the ring the crowd will be able to push them right back in again.
The faces of my people, twisted by bloodlust. They lean forward, grab at each other, shake fists and shout for the fight to begin. Has the Grub done this to us, made something in our minds that did not exist before? Maybe. Or is this desire to see violence something that has always been there, just below the surface, hiding among our orderly society?
Bishop takes a short step forward and thrusts. Victor parries it with a clack of wood on wood.
The crowd screams in glee.
Bishop’s feet are wide, his knees bent. He keeps a low center of gravity, just as he taught me to do. Victor’s weight rides on the balls of his feet. His head dips a little with each of Bishop’s steps—he’s trying to lock in the bigger boy’s timing.
Bishop shoots forward, thrusts at Victor’s chest. Victor dodges left; the blade hisses by. Bishop instantly adjusts, flicks his blade up at Victor’s face—a reaction so fast I barely see it—but the younger warrior is even faster. He leans back, avoiding the slash even as his own spearpoint slices through Bishop’s shoulder, trailing blood behind it.
The crowd roars like a wild animal.
Bishop winces as he bounces away, again circles to his left.
Victor presses the attack, lunging forward and thrusting at Bishop’s heart. Bishop moves to parry, but the thrust is a feint—in a blur of motion, Victor angles his spear down. The tip slashes through the coveralls of Bishop’s right thigh.
The duel has lasted only a few seconds, yet Bishop’s blood drips from a pair of wounds, red streaks that stain the white sand.
Victor isn’t just fast, his speed is blinding.
My people scream so loud. They love what they see. They want more.
This can’t be happening. Bishop is hurt, bleeding…could he really lose?
The younger boy dashes in again, forcing Bishop to move right. Bishop puts all his weight on his wounded leg; he winces and stumbles. Victor strikes, squatting low and sweeping the spear along the ground. The shaft cracks into Bishop’s ankle—he falls, hands outstretched, his spear skidding away.
Bishop lands on his hands and knees, kicking up a spray of sand. Before that sand arcs back down, Victor has closed the distance.
He thrusts at Bishop’s neck.
Everything stops.
I’m paralyzed, waiting for a gush of blood to paint the sand crimson.
But there is no gush, just a tiny bead of red where the point of Victor’s blade presses into the side of Bishop’s neck.
Bishop doesn’t move.
The crowd is silent.
I’m speechless. Thoughtless. Everyone is.
Victor Muller beat the unbeatable.
“Yield,” the boy says.
His message is simple and unmistakable. Just as his fighting style radiates efficiency, so too does this final action. There is no doubt what will happen if Bishop tries to rise.
Someone breaks the silence with a guttural shout: “Kill him!”
The crowd surges back to life, howling with rage and delight.
Bishop remains still. Only his eyes move, flicking to the spear that lies in the sand just an arm’s reach away.
Kill him! the people scream, over and over, Kill him! I’m stunned to see those calling for Bishop’s death include Farrar, Bawden, Kalle, Borjigin…Maria.
The Grub is warping even the strongest of us.
Bishop fought for these people, bled for them, protected them. He has been our pillar, strong and unbreakable, but just like that, they want to see his blood spilled onto the sand.
Victor’s hands tighten on his spear shaft.
I step to the edge of the circle.
“Bishop, yield,” I say.
When he doesn’t respond, I scream it: “Yield!”
He looks at me. I can see it in his eyes—he can’t believe he lost. The blade did not slice into his belly, but he’s gutted just the same.
“I yield,” he says.
The crowd screams for his blood anyway.
Victor takes a step back, thumps the butt of his spear into the sand. Emotion finally overwhelms him. His face wrinkles with disgust—not at Bishop, but rather at the crowd.
“All of you, shut your godsdamned mouths!”
His words are a slap across hundreds of faces. They stare at him, dumbly. A wave washes over them, reality crashing in. They finally understand what they sounded like, how they howled for the blood of a man who would have given his life for any of them.
My people are ashamed of themselves.
The Grub has power over us, yes, but not complete power.
Maybe there is still time.
Farrar and Bawden drag Bishop from the sand. Kenzie kneels by him, goes to work on his wounds.
Victor raises his spear.
“We’re at war. The normal rules don’t apply. No vote, no debate—I defeated Em’s champion, that makes me the leader.”
I wouldn’t have thought I could
be shocked to my core again, yet with those simple words, I am.
To my disbelief, heads nod.
This is how we function now? Just like that, the best fighter is our leader?
“The shuttle goes nowhere,” Victor says. He speaks to all of us, but stares straight at me. “You will not take that weapon away from us.”
This cannot happen. I won’t allow it.
“I’m taking Ximbal,” I say. “And everyone is coming with me. I don’t care if you defeated Bishop, Victor, you’re coming, too. We’re all leaving this place together.”
“You will not take the troopships, either,” Victor says, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “We need everything we’ve got to beat the Wasps. Don’t bother arguing, Em—we don’t have time for it. I’m the leader now. You will do what I say.”
A word pops into my head, something from Matilda’s childhood. Something my father used to say. Something I would have never even thought of saying for fear of the rod.
“Victor, that is pure bullshit.”
I hear people gasp. They look at each other, wondering if they just heard me right. We’ve been on our own for over a year with no adults, no Grownups, we have fought and died, remade this city in our image, and yet one bad word can stun people? The beatings they must have given us all when we were little to make us petrified of a few simple words…
Victor shakes his head. “Cursing won’t make a difference.”
“No, it won’t,” I say. “But violence will.” I look around at the crowd. “That’s what you all love now, isn’t it? Violence? Blood?” I tap my temple. “Have you all become so simpleminded that some evil thing beneath our city can change who you are, how you think? We are stronger than this!”
Victor strides toward me. He stops a few steps away, his eyes narrowed more with annoyance than fury.
“This is over,” he says. He holds out his hand. “I’m the leader now. Give me your spear.”
His works perfectly fine, as we’ve just witnessed, but mine is different. Charred, chipped and beat up, it remains our symbol of leadership. If Victor takes it, then this is truly over. And if that happens, his actions will condemn my people to death.
I step to the training circle’s edge. I spin my spear once, twice, then slam the butt into the sand.
“You want my spear, little boy? Then take it from me.”
His eyes squint in doubt.
“Em, are you serious? Are you challenging me?”
I turn in place, looking at this crowd of people who are so easily manipulated.
“Would you all like that?” I ask them. “Would you enjoy seeing Victor and me duel, because you’re so entertained by pain, by death?”
Some of them hold my gaze, but most look down. I’m magnifying their shame. Victor’s words cracked the God of Blood’s hold on them—my words are shattering it into a million pieces.
“Em, don’t be stupid,” Victor says. “I just beat Bishop and there isn’t a scratch on me.”
I hold out my right hand palm-up, curl my fingers in three times.
“You want scratches? Come get some.”
A hint of betrayal in his eyes. And then, I remember his crush. Was the fight against Bishop just for leadership…or, in Victor’s mind, was it also for me?
Maybe he thought he would rule, and I would be happily by his side.
He thought wrong.
“Make your choice,” I say. “Get in the circle, or shut your mouth and do what you’re told.”
His expression hardens.
“The enemy is coming,” he says. “We don’t have time for more duels. If you insist on this challenge, I have no choice but to make an example of you.”
I spit into the sand.
“You talk too much, Victor. Let’s settle this.”
I take off my boots. I want to feel the sand between my toes. It is cool and soft.
The shaft of my spear is charred and cracked, but still solid. This weapon has seen me through hard times. I need it to see me through one more.
Spingate pushes through the crowd, steps into the training circle. Dancing torchlight makes her red hair shimmer.
“This is crazy,” she says. “Single combat isn’t how we pick leaders! We can have another vote.”
She doesn’t think I can win. No one does.
Victor gives his spear a spin to the right, then to the left.
“Isn’t time for a vote,” he says. “This last fight, then no more. Anyone who challenges me after this will be put to death.”
He’s so confident. Barely more than a boy, but the way he fights, the way he speaks…it’s almost as if he’s destined to be a leader. Is Old Victor proof of that?
If leadership is Victor’s destiny, that destiny will have to wait.
“Spin,” I say, “get out of the circle.”
She does, shaking her head in both disgust and despair. Gaston takes her hand.
“Em, don’t do this,” he says. “You’re going to get killed. This is ridiculous.”
Other people chime in. Some murmur I have no right to challenge Victor at all, that Bishop’s loss settled things. I don’t care—I’m getting my people off this planet.
If violence rules, then I will rule by violence.
I nod at Victor. “You ready?”
He nods back. “May the best fighter win. I’ll try to go easy on you.”
Victor is committed to this course of action, but he clearly doesn’t want to fight me.
Something I can and will use against him…
If we’d dueled a week ago, he would have easily defeated me—he’s too fast, too strong. But in that week, I won a battle only to learn I’d lost the war. I learned about diversions.
I dart forward, thrust for his heart.
Victor dances right—my blade slices empty air, I’m too top-heavy, off-balance. I stumble, use my weapon to stop myself from falling—the spear tip sinks deep into the sand.
Before I can pull it free, Victor’s blade streaks for my throat. I twist left—his thrust misses me by a hair.
He steps back, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“Nice speed,” he says. “You’re fast, but not fast enough.”
You hurt my man, now I’ll hurt you in more ways than one….
“I love you,” I say.
The words are so quiet I don’t know if he hears them, but he sees them on my lips. From the way his eyes widen, I know he understands what I said. The words are like a slap to his face, stunning him for just an instant.
My spear blade is still buried in the sand. I lift and flick at the same time, launching a streak of tiny white grains straight into Victor’s face.
The move is so subtle and quick he doesn’t have time to duck or even blink. For an instant, his fighting form is forgotten as he twists his head away, lets go of the spear with one hand to rub at his tightly scrunched eyes. He quickly realizes his mistake, again grips the shaft with both hands and points his spear to the last place he saw me—but I’ve already moved to my right.
I slash down, slicing across the back of his hand. Blood spills out, streaming red jewels that sparkle in the torchlight before they hit the white sand, bead up in grainy clumps.
You tried to take what is mine, now you will pay with your life….
Squinting and blinking, Victor pivots, swings wildly. I easily block the strike and step in fast, erasing the distance between us. I twist my hips and turn my shoulders, transferring strength and momentum into my weapon—my spear butt comes up in a sharp arc that hits Victor in the balls so hard it lifts him off his feet.
He grunts, stumbles. That shot would have dropped most boys, but, half bent over, he shuffles backward, still trying to defend himself. He’s squinting, looking for me, trying to blink the sand out of his eyes.
The lust for brutality courses through me. I don’t fight it—it fills me with strength, with pure power.
I’ll end you, I’ll KILL you….
I close in for the fin
ish.
Victor somehow recovers enough to plant his feet and thrust forward, spearpoint driving toward my guts, but the shot to his groin has slowed him. I slip past his blade, slam my right knee into his stomach: he doubles over, air whuffing out of his lungs.
He can’t see—now he can’t breathe.
I drive my elbow into his nose; I hear and feel it snap.
Victor falls to his side. His spear rolls away. His hands flounder in the air, as if they can’t decide between rubbing his eyes, clutching his broken nose, holding his balls or stemming the blood gushing from his slashed hand.
Victor Muller is defenseless.
And now he’ll pay for what he’s done.
“You thought you could take what is mine,” I say. “You thought wrong.”
He raises his bloody, shaking hand toward me. “I yield!”
I laugh. “I don’t care!”
Will I slash his legs and arms, watch him bleed out, crying, begging for mercy? Or stab him through his throat, so I can see the look in his eyes as he dies the same way he tried to kill Bishop? Or should I make him go slowly, with a deep, deep gut wound, so he can try to stuff his own intestines back into his belly?
A blade in the belly…
The same way I killed Yong.
That makes me pause, but only for a moment. Yong attacked me. He deserved to die. So does Victor—I hate him, I want to hear him scream.
I raise my spear.
Spingate calmly steps between us.
“Don’t kill a defenseless person,” she says. “It will haunt you forever. Trust me, I know.”
I should kill her, too, kill them both.
“This is what the Grub wants.” She taps her temple. “The God of Blood is corrupting you, it’s doing to you what it did to me.”
The Grub…
Yes, it’s affecting me. Why shouldn’t it? The Grub is guiding me, guiding me toward my true self.
Victor lies there, helpless. Just one stab to his belly…
Yes, the belly, the same way I killed Yong.
The same way I killed O’Malley.
My temper vanishes, leaving a void that is filled by a rush of cold reality.
Victor is in a fetal position, wounded hand still upstretched toward me, blood pattering down to the sand. His nose is broken and bleeding. He can barely see.
