Alone

by Scott Sigler

  One of the bodyguards hands Barkah a leather equipment belt. The Springer king buckles it on, takes a hatchet and a knife from another bodyguard and jams the weapons into the belt. The final bodyguard hands my alien friend one of our long-pointed silver bracelets.

  Barkah slides the bracelet onto his forearm. He twitches his hand right, then left. I see the bracelet’s white crystal start to glow.

  Finally, the Springer king takes off his embroidered, jeweled eye patch and tosses it aside. From a pouch on his belt, he pulls out another and ties it in place. This patch is plain gray. Stitched on it, in heavy black thread, is a null-set symbol.

  Gone is the regal king with his fancy clothes. Before me I see the warrior I first met in the jungle, the brave soul that killed a hurukan with spear, musket and hatchet.

  He’s not sitting back this time: he’s here to fight.

  “Ready, Hem. You?”

  From a pocket, I pull out Halim’s bloodstained headband. I tie it around my head, aware as ever that it hides my circle.

  Belching smoke, Big Pig rolls to a stop next to us. The heavy vehicle will carry us to our jungle battleground. Dozens of troops—Springer and human both—hang over the thick metal walls, slapping them in a primal rhythm. The Springers wear jungle rags. The humans wear black coveralls, with yellow-leafed blue vines tied around their chests, arms and legs. A thick paste of mud and ash covers the exposed skin of both races.

  Two different species, yet every single soldier in that truck wears a headband decorated with the null-set symbol. Some are neatly stitched. Others, crudely done with paint. A few are inked in blood.

  I wish there was an afterlife, so Halim could look down and see the impact of his small gesture.

  Today, we are all truly one people.

  I climb into the truck. Barkah and his bodyguards scramble up behind me.

  Big Pig’s engine rumbles—we drive off to war.

  I am deep in the jungle ruins. Perhaps a hundred people of Omeyocan—Springer and human both—surround me. The jungle canopy arcs above, life-giving vines hanging down. No blurds here, no piggies, no animals of any kind, because wildlife seems to have the good sense to clear the hell out.

  If only we could be as smart.

  Big Pig dropped me and mine off, then carried Barkah to his own regiment. Far north, we hear Springer war horns, volley fire from rifles and muskets, the deadly bark of Wasp machine guns and the thundering echo of tanks letting off round after round. Barkah has engaged the enemy, but we have no idea how he’s doing.

  My unit waits for me to speak. Eyes of many colors look at me with fear, excitement and anger. Always anger. I am not so foolish to think our newly unified sense of purpose comes only because we now have a common enemy—the God of Blood drives us to fight, and fight we will.

  “The Wasps are coming,” I say. “Our scouts estimate they’ll be at the walls of Uchmal in two hours. Our ships will be ready to leave in four, so we must slow them down.”

  I turn as I talk, looking every single being in the eye, a technique I learned from Aramovsky. These soldiers’ thoughts swirl with rage and hatred, both from the Grub’s influence and because their home is being invaded. I need to connect with them, make sure they understand I’m here, fighting by their side.

  I still don’t know why I became the leader, but I have learned what a leader must do.

  “They have better weapons, but we know the jungle,” I say. “We’ll use that to our advantage. We get close, hit them hard, then fall back and lure them into our trap. Our goal is to take out as many tanks as we can, understand?”

  Heads nod. Springer tails thump against the ground.

  Tanks are the enemy’s lead element. If we let them roll right in, they’ll blow open the city gates and cruise down our streets with infantry close behind. If we attack the tanks, the Wasps will react to defend those tanks. That, we hope, will tie up their ground troops and slow their cannons, keeping them from moving into firing range until our evacuation is complete.

  We know they still have the troopships that brought them here. We haven’t seen those yet, don’t know where they are. All we can do is hope they fear our tower cannons and hold their troopships in reserve.

  “Keep fighting until we hear the retreat signal—three long blasts in a row,” I say. “When that sounds, all human troops return to the plaza, fast. All Springers, leave the battlefield. Head south to join your people. Everyone understand?”

  Nods and thumps. Focused eyes. Determined faces.

  The Springers here with us will not leave the planet. They know they are quite possibly fighting for the future of their species. And I know that if we drop the nuke, they probably won’t have enough time to make it out of the blast radius. We might only have this one chance to destroy the Wasp army—I will sacrifice thousands of my allies so that millions of them can survive.

  If I am very, very lucky, these are choices I will have to live with the rest of my days.

  I raise my spear.

  “Today, we are not Springers. We are not humans. We are all from Omeyocan. We fight as one. Rely on each other, and kill as many of those bastards as you can!”

  My warriors raise muskets, rifles and spears. A brief, unified bark of solidarity, then the crowd breaks up as they move to their assigned positions.

  I jog toward my spider. Good old 05. The holes have been patched, the leg repaired, the shiny dents painted over. Victor and Bawden wait in the cockpit. Victor’s hand is bandaged, as is his nose—there wasn’t time to heal him correctly.

  The three of us are a good team. I hope we all make it.

  Next to the spider is Maria, sitting astride the furry, smelly bulk of Fenrir. She smiles the wicked smile of someone who is gifted at war and knows war is about to begin.

  “Hail, Em,” she says. “That was quite the fancy speech.”

  “Oh, come on, Maria—you don’t use flowery words when your squad is going into battle?”

  She shakes her head. “We don’t talk. We just kill.”

  I wonder if Maria will survive the next four hours. I hope so. I hope so very much.

  I hand my spear up to Victor, then climb aboard. I’m about to give the order to move out when Maria calls up to me.

  “Em, one question?”

  I nod.

  “I like Bishop,” she says. “If you die today, can I date him?”

  I laugh. “Don’t hold your breath, sugar. I’ll be on the shuttle with him in a few hours.”

  “Or if Bishop dies,” Victor says to me, “can I date you?”

  I don’t know if I should be angry or offended—his charming grin erases either possibility. I cut him up, yet still he smiles at me.

  Bawden rolls her eyes.

  “If we’re done talking about our love lives, can we please go fight now?”

  I push my spear into its bracket on the cockpit’s rear wall, give the shaft a quick shake to make sure it’s held firmly, then face forward.

  “Take us out, half-speed,” I say.

  Number 05 crawls through the jungle.

  —

  Our careful strategy has already fallen apart.

  Maria quietly led us toward the Wasp column, only to run headlong into three of their ticks. Our grand plan to attack instantly turned into running for our lives.

  Bawden drives our spider full out, the armored hull bouncing off tree trunks as often as it goes around them. Two ticks scramble through the trees behind us, banking in and out of cover, their rapid-fire guns shredding wood and leaves. Bullets smack into our spider’s armor, make the metal ring like a musical instrument.

  I can’t see Maria anywhere.

  Victor pops up from the cover of our cockpit and fires his rifle over the spider’s back, eight shots in three seconds, then drops down again. He reloads, hands a blur.

  Ahead and to the right, I see a red flag waving from high in the branches—a Springer is up there, hidden among the vines and yellow leaves.

  At least part of o
ur plan is back on.

  I grab Bawden’s shoulder, point to the flag.

  “I’m on it,” she says, “hold tight!”

  Victor and I both grip the armored ridge as Bawden turns the spider hard toward the wide space below the flag—between two thick tree trucks.

  The lead tick is right behind us, guns pounding away at our armor.

  The moment we pass below the flag, a Springer yells. I lean over the side to look back as hidden ropes are pulled tight—a net rises between the trees. The tick tries to turn, but it’s too late. The eight-legged machine flies into the net. Anchoring ropes snap taut. The tick’s nose slams hard into the jungle floor. The machine bounces once, spinning, smashes down in a cloud of dead leaves.

  Springers hop out of the underbrush, rifles and muskets and hatchets ready to go to work.

  I see two lightly armored Wasps slowly crawl from the ruined tick. Just before Bawden turns sharply and I lose sight, the Springers close in on them.

  A hail of bullets rings off our spider, makes me drop down behind the cockpit’s cover. Victor pops up, emptying the rifle in a blur.

  “There,” Bawden shouts. “The tanks!”

  Through the thick underbrush, I see one, a hulking block of camouflaged metal with that thick barrel jutting forth like a spear. In our mad, directionless escape from ticks, we found our target. Now for the real test—can we lure the tanks away?

  “Lighting the smoke,” I say, then pull the pin on the thick canisters Borjigin mounted in the cockpit. With a whuff of compressed air, the skull-sized container inside shoots high, punching through the canopy before bursting in a cloud of purple smoke.

  “Oh shit-balls,” Bawden screams, and I’m almost thrown overboard as she turns our spider hard left. Out the right side, I see what she saw—hundreds of Wasp foot soldiers rushing through the underbrush toward us.

  Bullets rake us from the left; the other pursuing tick. I lean forward, out in front of Bawden—the tick banks sharply just before I flick my fingers forward, and my beam vanishes harmlessly into the jungle.

  Fire from the Wasp infantry pings madly off our spider, forcing Victor and me back down into the cockpit’s cover.

  “They’re chasing us,” he says.

  Bawden throws him a fast glare. “Wow, Vic, I would have never known.”

  “Just drive, dammit,” I say. “Get us to the target point.”

  We don’t have many spiders—Bishop guessed the Wasps probably know that. In fact, we based our whole strategy around that guess. If the Wasps are smart, they know taking out our mechanized units will give them a permanent advantage. We can only hope they want that so bad we can use it against them.

  Another musical burst of big bullets hammers into 05’s rear. The tick is behind us again, firing away.

  Our spider’s smooth movement suddenly changes to a lurching shudder, as if someone is rocking it hard side to side.

  “Leg damage,” Bawden calls out. “I have to take that leg off-line. Victor, help me!”

  They flip switches, twist knobs, turn dials. While they work, I pop up and fire bracelet blasts over the spider’s back, keeping the tick from closing in on us.

  The lurching lessens.

  “As good as it’s going to get,” Bawden says. “Hang on!”

  As if I could do anything else.

  Our spider rips through the jungle. We’re hit with a hail of gunfire so concentrated that even Victor won’t pop up to return fire. Bullets shred branches and trunks, tear the leaves around us, a swarm of invisible insects chewing the jungle to tiny bits.

  Even over the unending gunfire, I hear the tank cannon’s roar.

  Ahead of us, a fireball erupts, showering us with dirt and mud. I feel a dozen piercing stings on my face and hands. We’re moving too fast to avoid it—Bawden drives us straight through the blaze. It singes my skin, but we’re through it almost instantly. I look at my hands: big splinters jut out of them, shreds of a tree blasted apart by the tank’s powerful round. A glance at Bawden and Victor—their faces bleed from a dozen small cuts.

  We’re hurt, but the tank is following us…our plan is working.

  Movement to the right: the tick, again trying to flank us. I flick my fingers forward—this time my beam connects, glances off the tick’s armor. It banks away, working the trees and underbrush for cover.

  Another tank round erupts near us, then another, and another, each detonation a hard kick to my ears. Concussion waves hammer my body. The air fills with dirt and dust and mud and smoke. Grit in my eyes, my mouth.

  It’s not just one tank following us…it’s at least three.

  The explosions smack our spider side to side, but somehow Bawden keeps the machine from tumbling.

  “Trouble ahead,” she shouts.

  In front of us, the jungle flashes with a long line of rapid-fire bursts—camouflaged Wasp soldiers, dug in and ready.

  We were so close to the target point, but now we’re cut off from Barkah’s troops and from Borjigin’s surprise.

  “Screw it,” Bawden says. “Do or die, you sonsabitches!”

  The crazy girl maxes out our speed.

  I hit the deck. So does Victor. Bawden squats as low as she can. Bullets smack into the cockpit, ricochet around. A sting in my shoulder, a burn on my leg. Victor cries out.

  The roar of gunfire gets closer, louder, then starts to fade—Bawden punched through their lines.

  We slow slightly. Blue smoke up ahead; we’ve reached the target zone.

  Gunfire continues to hammer the spider. No wonder these machines dominated the Springers for two centuries. The Wasp bullets damage it, but can’t destroy it—simple musket balls would do almost nothing at all to this armor.

  Something inside the spider clanks. The machine stumbles, slows to half-speed.

  “Bawden,” I scream, “get us moving!”

  She kneels, pulls open a hatch and drops into the spider’s guts. “Victor, drive! Em, keep them off us!”

  Over the loud-as-hell tanks rumbling along in pursuit, I hear the roar of a tick engine. It’s coming, but I can’t tell from where.

  A war cry of clicks and chirps—the Wasp infantry is advancing on us.

  A tank round detonates just to our right, so close I feel the heat. Debris showers us.

  And we’re still slowing down.

  “Where the hell is Borjigin?” Victor shouts. “He’s supposed to be here!”

  We did our job—Borjigin isn’t here to do his. We’re taking fire from all sides. If we get out of the slowing spider, we’ll be dead before we hit the ground.

  Is this how it ends?

  I lie back on the cockpit deck. I look up into the jungle canopy. Yellow leaves, brown branches and tree trunks, blue vine stems. Through the foliage, the dappled late afternoon sky. A few clouds. Far above, Omeyocan’s twin moons are just starting to show themselves.

  This is a good place to die.

  I hope we gave Gaston enough time.

  Then, something massive blocks out the sky.

  The tallest trees shudder. Long prongs of bright-blue metal push them aside. As easily as a child stepping through tall grass, Borjigin’s giant machine steps through the trees, steps over us. Huge steel feet smash down, one after another, as it marches toward the oncoming tanks.

  The constant hail of bullets switches from us to the giant.

  I’m up in an instant, peeking over the back of the spider. The pursuing tick is still streaking toward us, but the sudden appearance of Borjigin’s giant sends the Wasp infantry fleeing into the trees.

  Our spider grinds to a halt.

  “Victor,” I say, taking aim at the oncoming tick, “signal to Barkah’s troops to close in!”

  As a disciplined unit, the Wasp foot soldiers seemed unbeatable—now they’re scattered in the deep jungle, where Springers have fought for centuries.

  The tick driver finally sees Borjigin’s beast, slows and starts to turn away from the monstrosity. It’s not shooting at our spider
anymore—I finally have two seconds to line up a clean shot.

  My bracelet beam blazes out, splashes off the tick’s armored cockpit. I don’t know if I hit anything inside, but the eight-legged machine stumbles awkwardly. It rights itself—just as a giant bright blue foot crushes through the branches and smashes down on the tick so hard the ground trembles.

  A hail of bullets makes us duck down again. Victor pops up, firing fast. I join him, shooting bracelet blasts at a squad of Wasp infantry rushing toward us, led by a big one with copper-striped shoulders. The soldiers move from tree to tree, weaving in and out, firing all the way. This squad isn’t like the ones that ran screaming into the jungle. These might be properly trained soldiers—the Wasps’ version of circle-stars.

  Victor’s fire drops one Wasp, my beams drop a second.

  I kneel low, look into the open hatch. Bawden is jammed in among the machinery, using her knife to chisel away at some cracked ceramic piece.

  “Bawden, if you don’t get this thing moving, we’re dead!”

  “Almost got it,” she says, and keeps chipping.

  “Here they come,” Victor screams.

  I hear something climbing up the side of the spider. I yank my spear from its bracket, lean out and drive the blade into a Wasp’s armored face. The point punches through its helmet, knocking the soldier off the rungs.

  Another Wasp leaps onto the spider’s sloped front, one hand holding the armored ridge, the other aiming its heavy rifle at me. Victor kicks out hard, his boot smashes into the Wasp’s chest—the Wasp fires as it falls back, but the bullets go wide.

  A third Wasp lands in the middle of the cockpit, pistol in hand. Before it can fire, Victor tackles it, knocking it into me.

  All three of us fall to the cockpit deck.

  I can’t reach my spear.

  I draw my knife, wrap an arm around the Wasp’s head and saw at the armor covering its throat.

  The Wasp clicks and hisses, trying to bring its pistol to bear on Victor, who growls and grunts, holds the Wasp’s wrist in a death grip.

  We are animals fighting for life.

  A flash of yellow whips in from above. Pincers snap shut. The alien is on top of me one moment, yanked high the next.