by Scott Sigler
The they she refers to…Grownups? Springers? Wasps? All of the above, probably.
“I don’t know.” Which is the truth. There is so much I don’t know, and now I will never get the chance to learn.
I grip Spin’s shoulders, hold her firm as I step back. She’s shaking. I lean in, kiss her forehead.
“Thank you for everything,” I say. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll still be in here when it’s done.”
My hope is a false one. We all know it.
“Goodbye, Em,” Spin says.
She steps to Gaston, who is trying his hardest to stand up straight, to not collapse with heartbreak. She puts her arm around his shoulders.
Together, they stand there. A family. Father, mother, son. They represent the future of my kind. They are why I am doing this.
I turn my back on my friends and head toward my fate.
We meet in the Garden.
Not an “orchard,” but rather the Garden. It’s just as overgrown as when we were last here. The same thick woods where Bello was taken. The same tangled brambles we crawled through to escape. The same sickly-sweet smell of rotting fruit. The glowing ceiling arcing high above seems to have a few more black spots, but maybe that’s just my imagination.
This is where we fought the Grownups.
I could have killed Matilda then. I did not. I wanted to be a better person than her.
That decision is about to cost me my life.
She stands near the broken fountain that is nothing more than water burbling up through tall reeds. She’s with three wrinkled, coal-black Grownups. Old Gaston is one of them, a bit shorter than she is. I don’t recognize the other two.
Bulbous red eyes, whirling with a soft internal light. The nasty mouth-folds, quivering slightly.
All four Grownups wear silver bracelets, white stones already flickering with power.
Her people are armed.
Mine are not. We weren’t allowed to bring weapons.
I have brought three people with me as well, all of whom can fight. Bishop, because there is no Grownup waiting for him. Young Victor, because his Grownup is on our side. And Barkah, because as the leader of his people he needs to understand what’s happening.
Bishop seems calm, a stone statue covered in skin, but I can see the turmoil in his soul. Victor is more outwardly upset—hands clench into fists, unclench, clench again. Two boys, both covered with dried mud, blood of different colors, both smelling of sweat and smoke and death. The rivalry between them is forgotten. Neither of them wants me to do this, yet both of them obey the orders I have given to not interfere.
Barkah seems to be taking it all in. I’m not sure what he’s thinking.
We walk toward Matilda and her people.
The Grownups level their bracelets at us.
“Far enough,” Matilda says.
My friends and I stop. El-Saffani tried rushing the Grownups; the Grownups killed them. Even Bishop has to see the futility of attacking. At least I hope he does.
“Let’s not waste time talking,” Matilda says. “We all know how this ends.”
I can’t help myself—I have to try one last time.
“You know I’m not lying about the God of Blood,” I say. “You know we can’t lie to each other. Omeyocan isn’t the paradise you were promised. It never was.”
I can taste the hate pouring off her.
“To think I was such a coward,” she says. “To think that I might quit at the first sign of danger. Are you a sad special snowflake because the God of Blood put obstacles in your path? If you want something and you don’t have to fight for it, darling-dear, then it was never worth having in the first place.”
I was wrong. She does believe me about the Grub. She just doesn’t care. Matilda is single-minded, a dauntless force of will.
“At least get the Xolotl out of here,” I say. “Every second you wait is a second that brings us closer to a fight we can’t win.”
“You’re telling me that as if I didn’t already know. Tick-tock, darling-dear—time’s a-wasting.”
She is regal. Triumphant.
My heart sinks. “You’re horrible. How can you put your life above the lives of so many others?”
Her one eye swirls.
“Am I putting my life above so many others, or are you? Every moment you waste is another moment that barbarian ship comes closer. And why is your non-life so important, anyway? Hundreds of thousands of people dedicated their existence, their fortunes, their families, to bring the human race to Omeyocan. It was a struggle, but great struggle is the price of great achievements. I outlasted my enemies. I outlasted Brewer. I outlasted you. You have something I want, Em. I have something you want. It’s as simple as that.”
Victor shakes a fist at her. “You selfish bitch. You’re going to get us all killed!”
“Silence,” Bishop snaps, turning his head slightly toward the younger circle-star. “Obey your orders!”
Old Gaston glances at Matilda, just for a moment, his red eyes briefly betraying emotion. Is there animosity between them? If I had time, maybe I could exploit that, but time is something I don’t have.
“Children, please,” Matilda says. “Young man, you’re hardly the first to call me that name. But by all means, keep running your little mouths. Take as long as you like.”
I stare at Matilda. She stares at me.
“Tick-tock,” she says.
We are impossibly different. We are exactly the same. Maybe something happened to her that made her this evil. Or maybe something happened to me to make me less so.
We’ll never know.
To get what she wants, Matilda Savage is willing to let everyone she knows die.
Em Savage is not.
And that is why, in the end, she wins.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
Bishop breaks ranks, steps forward. Grownup arms snap up, aim bracelets—I step between the weapons and my man, put a hand on his chest.
He stops. His face is a mask of calculating savagery.
“I’ll kill her.” His voice is quiet, controlled, which makes it all the more terrifying. “I’ll kill them all.”
“You promised me you wouldn’t try to stop this.”
He looks past me, to the Grownups.
“I lied,” he says. “I can’t lose you. I won’t.”
Victor nods madly, a crazy grin splitting his face. “I’m with you, Bishop. Let’s get them.”
Barkah stamps a big foot down hard.
“Stop,” he says. “Orders!”
Just the one word, yet it seems to rattle Bishop and Victor both. The two are torn between their hardwired duty to obey their leader and a deep desire to protect me.
I step past Bishop, stand before Victor.
“It’s me or it’s everyone,” I say. “If you want to protect your people, let me go.”
He tries to look into my eyes, but he can’t. His head drops.
“I’ll go with you,” he says. “I said I would follow you anywhere. That includes following you into death itself. Please, let me.”
I thought his feelings for me were just a crush. Yet one more thing I was wrong about, because I finally understand—Victor Muller is truly in love with me.
“Permission denied.” I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. “You are so brave, Victor. Be brave now. Our people need you.”
I stand in front of Bishop. I reach up, put my right hand on his left shoulder. Inside, he’s crumbling. He’s shattering.
“There has to be another way,” he says.
The waver in his voice is almost enough to make me turn and rush the Grownups. My throat is dry. It hurts to know I will leave him so brokenhearted.
Ramses Bishop is a soldier. He would sacrifice anything for his people. He is a fighter, one who acts through violence, but this time, his violence would solve nothing.
“My decision,” I say. “I do this for all of us.”
He looks down. He nods. He puts his ri
ght hand on my left shoulder.
“Hail, Em. May the gods welcome you home.”
I glance at Barkah. We have been foes. We have been friends. In some ways, this alien understands me better than anyone else, Bishop and Spingate included. Barkah knows exactly what is happening. He doesn’t try to talk me out of it. He simply nods.
“Hem. Peace.”
He gets that this isn’t just about me. He gets the bigger picture—the lives of his people depend upon my actions.
I throw my arms around Bishop’s neck and kiss him one last time, a deep kiss, a real kiss. A kiss that I will take with me into oblivion.
As soon as I let go of Bishop, Barkah hops forward and hugs me. I hug him back, smell the strange odor of his skin, the stench of battle that clings to him still.
I push away. I turn to face my killer.
“I have one condition,” I say.
Matilda laughs, a hateful sound that makes me want to tear out her other eye and blind her forever.
“Now you have a condition? A tad late for that.”
“Just one demand, Matilda. If you don’t meet it, you’ll find out you’re not the only Savage who is willing to die to get what she wants.”
For the first time, her aura of confidence wavers. There is the briefest moment where she examines me, trying to decide if my will is as strong as I say.
But she knows it is, because my will is her will.
“What’s the condition?”
“When we’re connected for the overwrite, before it begins, you give the navigation command codes to my Gaston.”
“Ridiculous,” she says. “You think I would give away my only bargaining chip?”
I shrug. “You don’t have a choice. If you want this body, you give me your word. You’re old, Matilda. You’re frail. If you die in the process, I have to know my sacrifice is worth it.”
She stares at me.
“Tick-tock,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be a shame to get what you want only to have the Dragon destroy us anyway? Tick-tock.”
It feels good to throw those two words back in her face.
“I accept your condition,” she says. “Let’s go. We’re wasting time.”
She turns, gestures for me to walk with her.
I take a step, then look back at Bishop one last time. I was never sure if I loved him completely, the way I loved O’Malley. Only now, when I realize I will never see Bishop again, do I realize I love him just as much.
Maybe more.
Why do I only discover my true feelings for people when it is too late to do anything about them?
“Farewell, my love,” I say. “I hope you find happiness.”
He says nothing. A single tear rolls down his cheek, cutting a wet line through dirt, smoke stains and blood.
Three steps take me to Matilda. Side by side, I let her lead me toward our fate.
Bars slide from ancient white fabric, lock around my waist, my ankles and my wrists.
My heart kicks. It’s hard to breathe.
For some reason, I expected the room where I die to be white, shiny and clean.
I was wrong.
It’s no different from the room in which I first awoke. Dingy. Mostly dark due to lights that probably burned out centuries ago. There’s dust here. This place smells of mold and death.
Matilda led me out of the Garden, past the spot where I first fought her, where she lost her eye, where Bishop killed Old Aramovsky. Through the darkness, the only light coming from thin lines of color embedded in the floor.
Through stone doors cracked and cratered by ancient explosions.
Past armored turrets with silver barrels that tracked our every step.
Through doors made of steel, not stone.
And finally, to this room, decorated with only two things: a golden coffin and a black X.
The coffin gleams. The white fabric inside is rippled with age, even torn in a few places.
This is where they overwrote Bello. I don’t have to be told this to know my friend ended here.
Old Gaston and the others shackle Matilda to the X, locking down her wrists and ankles. They place the black crown on her head.
This is how Kevin O’Malley died.
I stabbed him, yes, but it’s time to let that go. I had no way of knowing the boy I loved was still in there. It wasn’t my fault. Finally, I accept that.
I hope that I’m wrong about religion. I hope there’s an afterlife. I hope Kevin is there, waiting for me.
Golden coffin lids rise up on either side, slide shut and block out all light.
My life will end the same way it began: in darkness.
I am about to be erased.
My body will live on. Maybe some shred of my mind, too—O’Malley was still in there; Bello remembered things she couldn’t possibly know. Perhaps a tiny piece of Em will exist within Matilda.
A part of me holds on to the hope that this will fail, but only a small part. I have no illusions: the person that I am will cease to exist. Of all the things that make me who I am—a friend, a killer, a leader, a manipulator, a lover—I am also a realist.
And reality is what it is whether we like it or not.
“Em, can you hear me?”
Matilda’s voice.
Even though it’s pitch-black in here, I shut my eyes tight. Do I really have to listen to her now? Do I have to hear the voice of that horrible bitch?
There must be speakers in this coffin somewhere, hidden in the old white fabric.
“I know you’re listening, darling-dear. Speak with me in your last moments.”
Her words drip with smug satisfaction.
“Go to hell. You disgust me.”
“How rude. We’re the same person. You should be happy.”
I want to jam my fingers into my ears but my wrists are locked down. The coffin is old; these bars are new—I can’t break them like I did when I first awoke. I want Matilda to shut up, just shut up, but I know she will not, not until the gas drags us both down to blackness.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
“Yes, you should have. Compassion is for the weak. Because of your weakness, you end. Because of my strength, I live anew.”
My eyes sting. What…now? For all the times I couldn’t dredge up a single tear, I spend my last few moments crying?
“You were spectacular, darling-dear. So vicious. It’s odd, but you made me proud. It seems fitting that the greatest foe I have ever faced is actually me.”
If that smug, preening, selfish monstrosity is what I could have become, then maybe it’s for the best that I end now.
“Time to keep your promise. Release the navigation command codes.”
She laughs. “Don’t be silly, foolish girl. You knew I wouldn’t give you the codes. Down in your infant heart, you wanted to join with me. Your pathetic little demand was just for show.”
Rage consumes me, but it’s hollow, there and gone in an instant. I gambled. I lost. My existence will end to the bitter sound of her self-satisfied cackle.
“Goodbye, Em. Gaston, I am ready. Begin the process.”
Old Gaston’s gravelly voice comes through the hidden speakers: “No, Matilda—you made a deal.”
I stop breathing. I stare into the darkness.
Matilda isn’t laughing anymore.
“Always the comedian, Admiral. Begin the process. Don’t make me angry.”
“You gave your word,” he says.
“Since when does my word matter? We’re at war.”
Her voice cracks on the words. She’s afraid.
“It matters now,” Old Gaston says. “I’ve listened to your lies for centuries. Not anymore. Your selfishness has put my descendants at risk.”
“Your descendants?” Matilda shrieks her words. “You mean the bastard child from that whorish version of Theresa and your receptacle? Those aren’t your children, Gaston!”
“I’ll never have children of my own, because I followed you. Give me the co
de.”
“You godsdamned, backstabbing cockroach! Start the process or I’ll have you skinned alive!”
“You gave your word,” he says. “Honor it or suffer the slow demise of dying where you are.”
He’s calm, methodical, but he’s also enjoying this.
“Fine,” Matilda says.
She rattles off a string of letters and numbers that is so long I lose track of them by the tenth or eleventh digit.
“One moment while I verify,” Old Gaston says.
The codes…if they’re correct, will he release me? Maybe I won’t end after all.
My heart thunders with hope.
I can’t think, I dare not think at all….
A few moments later, Old Gaston says, “Codes confirmed.”
“Let me out of here! Please! We can fly away, we can escape, we can—”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Matilda gave her word. So did you.”
With that, I know it’s over. He’s right. I did give my word.
I smell something. The gas…
“Ah, it begins,” Matilda says. “You did well, Em. You did what needed to be done.”
The creature I hate more than anything in the universe pays me a compliment. I should be repulsed. I’m not. She won, and she is gracious in victory.
I chose this end, but I did it so that others would continue on.
I only lived a single, short year, but—like Brewer—I made a difference.
So groggy…I don’t know if my eyes are open or if I’m not able to open them at all….
My constant anger, it’s gone.
I feel at peace—my existence mattered.
As sleep claims me, I smile.
Ribbons of memory flutter and fly.
I am six years old.
A smell, stinky but welcome…old fish.
I am in a boat.
Not a boat, a canoe. It’s red.
An old man is with me. He wears blue robes. He has a symbol on his forehead. Not a gear, not a half or a circle; this one is shaped different, like the number eight on its side.
No, wait, I know what that is…it’s an infinity symbol. A tattoo, faded black on light brown skin.
I’m holding a fishing pole. We’re on a lake. I don’t see any other boats. Green trees grow on distant shores. The sun shines down, but it’s cold. I’m warm enough, though, because I’m also wearing blue robes.
