by Scott Sigler
Gaston’s progenitor flew Matilda back up here. He’s still alive as far as we know.
We stare for a few more minutes.
Gaston sighs. “I’m bored. Ximbal, broadcast me on the Xolotl’s general frequency.”
“Ready to transmit, Captain Xander.”
Gaston squares his shoulders, gives his coveralls a quick tug. The little boy I knew is gone, has been for a long time. Gaston is a grown man. A husband. A father. A leader.
“Attention, Xolotl. This is Captain Xander Gaston, requesting permission to board. Open the damn landing bay doors already.”
We wait.
A minute passes. Two minutes.
We start to wonder if the Xolotl can hear us at all, then the pilothouse’s front wall fuzzes with static. The Xolotl’s copper hull vanishes from view. Multicolored sparkles appear, brighten, start to coalesce into a shape—a Grownup.
When the image finally crystallizes, it’s not Gaston’s progenitor we see.
It’s mine.
“You’ve come back to me,” Matilda says. “Good girl.”
I stare at the image of the one-eyed, hateful creature who created me. To her, I’m nothing but a doll, a vehicle made so she can continue her pathetic life.
She had no right to be the leader of her people, yet that is what she became. I had no right to be the leader of mine, yet that is what I became. We are both ruthless and aggressive—no surprise there, since we are the same person.
But Matilda has grown old…ancient. She won’t change her ways. She is a living fossil, stuck in that wrinkled black form forever, while I have matured and learned from my mistakes. I have become more than my creator could ever be.
“I’m no girl,” I say. “Not anymore. Open the doors.”
This grizzled, nasty thing shakes her head.
“And let your little army of uncivilized killers walk right in? I don’t think so, darling-dear.”
“We have nowhere to go,” I say. “Because the god that supposedly called you here isn’t a god at all. It’s a beast, Matilda—an alien that has pitted all these races against each other. Did you know that?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and in that instant I understand that she didn’t know.
“You’re a liar,” she says.
The intensity carried in that single word.
But I can’t lie to her any more than she can lie to me. We both know that, and yet she doesn’t believe me. At some level, she’s choosing not to believe. Maybe this is a truth she can’t allow herself to accept, as if accepting it might drive her insane.
Whatever her reason, it doesn’t matter right now.
“Open the landing bay doors,” I say.
Matilda ignores me. “Little Gaston, turn over control of the shuttle to me. My people will guide it remotely to an access hatch, where the shuttle will dock. Once there, Em, you will come across, alone and unarmed.”
I start to refuse her demand outright, to scream at her, but I no longer react from pure emotion. There is information to be gathered first.
“If I comply, will you let the shuttle in?”
She nods. “Of course. I’m not a barbarian.”
“And the Springers,” I say. “They can come in as well?”
Matilda laughs.
“You think I would let vermin inside this ship? Vermin we almost wiped out when we built our city?”
She doesn’t even bother lying to me about the Springers. I’ll give her that much, at least.
“So what happens to them?” I ask. “They can’t go back down to Omeyocan.”
Matilda shrugs her narrow shoulders. “Not my concern. I only care about human lives.”
I actually kind of admire her honesty. I can be honest, too.
“Open the doors, Matilda. Or else.”
More laughter.
“Such bravado from an infant, from a liar who would betray everything! That shuttle you’re on is older than I am. It just went through a battle—it could break down at any moment. All those aboard could be seconds from death. Save your people, Em. Come aboard by yourself and I promise you everyone will be safe.”
That agreeable tone of voice. When she wants something, Matilda sounds so reasonable, so nice. But I also hear the hunger within her words. Hunger, and deep concern. She’s not lying about the Ximbal’s condition—she genuinely thinks it could have a critical malfunction at any moment. And if it does, she’s trapped in that awful body forever.
“We have wounded,” I say. “While you foam at the mouth, people are dying.”
“Then help them, darling-dear. Come aboard. Up here, girl, you have no power. The choice is yours to make.”
I’ve had enough.
I turn to Gaston. “How many missiles do you have left?”
“Six,” he says, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why?”
“Would that be enough to penetrate the landing bay doors?”
He stares at me like I am mad. By now, I probably am.
“Yes,” he says. “But that would destroy the outer doors. We couldn’t depressurize, the airlock would be ruined.”
“But we could land? We would just have to figure out how to get everyone off the shuttle safely. Right?”
He thinks. His face suddenly scrunches, a telltale sign he’s having a flashfire moment. His progenitor’s knowledge is bubbling to the surface.
“There are emergency measures in the landing bay,” he says. “It would take some time, but yes—we can get everyone off safely.”
I wait. Matilda heard that exchange; I don’t need to tell her what I’ll do next.
“Don’t threaten me,” she says. “I control this ship. I control our weapons. If you think you’re going to damage the Xolotl, you are mistaken. I will blow you out of the sky.”
I smile at her.
“Do that, and this body you want so much dies. Which means I do have all the power. You can either open the doors or we will blow them open. Gaston, launch missiles in sixty seconds.”
He shakes his head no, then his face scrunches again. He’s remembering something else.
“Ximbal, break contact,” he says.
Matilda vanishes.
“Gaston, what are you doing? I had her where I wanted her!”
He waves his hand dismissively.
“You always think you have people where you want them, and that usually ends with blood flying everywhere or something exploding. Listen to me—I think we can open the doors manually, but someone has to go extravehicular.”
“Extravehicular?” I’m confused for a moment, then the word registers. “You mean go outside…in space?”
He grins that mischievous grin of his.
“Yeah. Outside. In space. And we better do it fast before my progenitor figures out what we’re up to.”
—
Through the pilothouse walls, Peura and I watch Xander Gaston float out into space.
He wears a thick pressure suit that covers him from head to toe. Tiny tongues of flame jut from his feet and waist, propelling him forward. He floats down the deepening groove.
“Approaching the emergency access panel.”
His voice, coming through the pilothouse walls.
“All right,” I answer, not knowing what else to say.
It looks like we’re hovering above the ship’s cratered surface, still as can be, although I know the cylinder—and the shuttle—continues to spin.
Peura glows with light. “I think I remember these lessons. The Xolotl has exterior landing bay controls in case anything goes wrong inside.”
“What could go wrong inside?”
“Systems breakdown,” he says. “Malfunctions, a fire, everyone dying from a gas leak. If no one can open the doors from the inside, you don’t want your shuttle crew trapped in space. Emergency external access is a better solution than, say, using missiles to blow the doors apart.”
Well well well…turns out chubby Noam Peura is a smartass. Who knew?
Gaston r
eaches the bottom right corner of the sprawling landing bay doors. He’s so small out there.
Peura moves glowing icons. The wall display changes to a close-up of Gaston.
Gaston opens a copper-colored panel. Beneath it are a pair of parallel rings. No, not rings…handles. His gloved fingers wrap around them. He plants his booted feet on the copper hull.
“I hope this works,” he says.
He pulls. There is a moment’s hesitation, resistance, then he leans back—each handle is anchored to a steel cylinder. They slide out, then lock.
“Oh, who am I kidding,” Gaston says. “This is me we’re talking about—of course it will work.”
He twists both hands inward. The handles and cylinders turn: what was parallel is now a line.
“I think that’s it,” Peura says. “There will be an emergency signal in the landing bay so anyone inside can get clear before it depressurizes.”
We wait.
And then, the massive doors start to slide open.
Gaston pilots us into the landing bay, the Springers’ troopship at our side. The huge hangar doors shut like jaws clamping tight just before food is swallowed. We opened those doors from the outside, but whoever controls the Xolotl closed them behind us.
“They’re repressurizing,” Gaston says.
Bishop enters the pilothouse, stands next to me. The walls show us the landing bay outside. This is where we escaped. This is where El-Saffani died.
How many more of us will die this day?
We smell of smoke, sweat and blood. We smell of the jungle. We’re exhausted from fighting and lack of sleep. We’re drained by so many deaths. But our work is not done. Before we can rest, we must take this ship.
We wait.
Equipment racks, machines and various tanks line the landing bay walls. Other than our shuttle and the Springer troopship, though, the large space is empty.
“Pressure equalized,” Gaston says.
Which means people can now enter.
But no one does.
“I don’t like this,” Bishop says.
No movement. This feels wrong. Last time we were here, there were hundreds of Grownups, a shambling nightmarish mass of those who want to erase us.
So now that we’ve come back, where are they?
“My team is ready,” Bishop says. “Farrar, Victor, Darzi and I will go out, with people just inside the Ximbal’s door for fire support. Em, I know you want to face danger first, but I insist you stay back. Our people need you now more than ever.”
Bruises, splinters, cuts…I’m all beat up. Bishop is, too, but he was engineered for nonstop fighting. I wasn’t. It isn’t the pain so much—I’ve suffered worse—it’s that my body is so depleted it isn’t responding fast enough. Until I get some rest, I’m a liability, and we can’t afford an iota of weakness.
“All right,” I say. “But I’m with the second team giving you cover. And Victor stays with me—his progenitor is out there.”
Bishop nods. “I’ll take Bawden instead.”
“I’ve finally reached the Springer troopship,” Gaston says. He looks relieved. “Barkah and Lahfah are on it. Barkah needed some stitches, but he’s all right. He’s awake and in command.”
My soul sags with relief. Yes, we lost a thousand Springers, but I didn’t know them—my friends are still alive.
“Tell Barkah to make sure his people stay put,” I say. “We don’t need them complicating things.”
Gaston nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
I turn to Bishop.
“Please be careful.”
—
I stand in the Ximbal’s exterior doorway, half-hidden by the bulkhead. I wear a freshly charged bracelet. I don’t know whose it was. Several young circle-stars stand with me, including Nedelka Holub, also armed with a bracelet, and Victor, who holds a rifle. We all aim out into the landing bay, ready to shoot anything that threatens our people.
We especially watch the tall, wide doors that open into the rest of the ship. That’s where the Grownups came from last time.
Ximbal’s deck and ramp are gone. We’re high enough above the landing bay floor that Bishop and his team had to hold on to the bottom of the door with their fingers before dropping down.
Bishop, Farrar, Darzi and Bawden spread out through the landing bay. They’re still covered in jungle camouflage, skin and hair smeared with mud. Each of them is armed: a bracelet on one arm, white stone glowing. Farrar has his shovel, Bawden her pitchfork, little Darzi a long knife. Bishop, of course, has his red axe, still caked with Wasp blood and bits of yellow flesh.
A heavy clang of metal reverberates through the landing bay—the wide interior door starts to slide open.
Farrar and Darzi rush to different areas, taking cover behind machinery bolted to the walls.
Bawden and Bishop don’t hide—they stand tall.
He waves at me to keep everyone where they are. The shuttle’s hull is impervious to bracelet beams. If fighting breaks out, my spot is the best position from which to support him and the others.
I snap my wrist left, then right, feel my bracelet power up.
The big metal door rattles on its track. The space beyond is mostly dark, but I see movement.
I aim my bracelet. Victor and those around me take aim as well.
The huge doors open all the way. They stop with an echo of metal that slowly fades.
Finally, those that hide in the shadows step through the door.
Grownups.
But only two. Behind them, normal people, a dozen, armed with knives or clubs. No guns or bracelets. They wear togas similar to what Marcus wore.
Wait…Marcus is one of them.
What’s going on?
This strange welcoming committee approaches Bishop and Bawden. Old legs, withered bodies, gnarled skin. One of the Grownups can barely walk. He slides his left leg more than lifts it. Each step seems difficult, forced.
“I’ve got the limping one,” I say quietly, and take aim.
“Got the one on the right,” Victor says.
The circle-stars with us softly call out their targets.
The two Grownups stop in front of Bishop and Bawden. The taller one says something to Bishop.
Bishop calls to me, his voice echoing through the landing bay: “Em, they want you.”
Victor whispers in my ear. “If they even blink funny, I’ll take them all out.”
Regardless of the way Victor vied for power, he believed in me before and he believes in me now.
The circle-stars take my hands and lower me down. Even with their help, it’s a big drop—I land on the deck, pleased that I didn’t stumble or fall.
I walk to the group, comforted by the bracelet’s familiar thrum.
Bishop and Bawden step aside.
I stand face-to-face with the two Grownups.
When you first see Grownups, they all look the same. If you pay close attention, though, you can tell them apart. The taller of the two, the one that was limping…he has white scars all over him, and a white circle-star carved into his black forehead.
“Victor Muller?”
“Correct,” he says. His voice is raspy, breathy, old. “Welcome aboard.”
This could still be a trick. I must be careful.
“Last time we were in this landing bay, we had to fight our way out,” I say. “Now you conveniently control it?”
Marcus leans out from behind the Grownups. He’s holding a metal pipe in a white-knuckle grip.
“Em, it’s all right, Victor is on our side.”
“I don’t trust him,” I say. “And I don’t trust you, either. So if you’re not in charge, keep your mouth shut.”
His eyes widen. I think I hurt his feelings.
“Marcus, put the weapon down,” Old Victor says. “All of you. If they wanted to fight, you’d be dead already.”
Marcus drops the pipe. It clangs against the metal deck. The other normal people with him do the same.
“Yes, we c
ontrol the landing bay,” Old Victor says. “And now most of the ship. We’ve fought against Matilda for hundreds of years. When she took her best warriors down to Omeyocan, we were finally able to gain territory.”
Warriors like Old Bishop, Old Farrar, Coyotl and more. She brought her most loyal and most dangerous followers.
We killed them all.
If Old Victor is telling the truth, Matilda’s trip to the planet cost her significantly. She not only lost her inner circle, she lost much of her control aboard this ship. She lost the landing bay? That explains why she wanted us to dock somewhere else.
Serves the bitch right.
“That other ship in orbit, the Dragon, it could be coming to attack us,” I say. “We need to get the Xolotl away from the planet.”
Old Victor scratches at a scar. “We can’t,” he says. “Matilda and Gaston still control the engines, she…”
His voice trails off. He’s distracted. He looks over my shoulder, to the shuttle…to our Victor.
“That’s…that’s me,” Old Victor says. “Is that me?”
Longing in that voice. I snap my fingers in front of his red eyes, draw his attention back to me.
“You go near him, you die,” I say. “Understand?”
The ancient creature nods his disgusting head. “I do. Unlike Matilda, I have no desire to live forever. Death is part of life.”
So says the man that’s lived for a thousand years.
I get back to the important issue. “How do we capture the bridge so we can leave?”
Old Victor glances at the other Grownup. This one is shorter than him, but a little taller than me.
“Hello, Em,” he says. “Welcome aboard.”
That voice…
My stomach drops. The horror of a moment I want to forget floods back…blood and dust and tears…a young man crying for his mother…
“Yong?”
The Grownup nods.
I killed his receptacle, forever ended this man’s ability to overwrite, to live on. Right or wrong, my actions have condemned him to a long, slow death.
Does he know what I did?
The red eyes stare.
“I can guess what you’re thinking,” he says. “Yes, I know it was you.”
My bracelet hand curls into a fist, fingers ready to flick forward. The fight is about to begin.
