Alone

by Scott Sigler

  There was no one left loyal to Matilda and her cause, because Matilda’s true cause was Matilda. Centuries of dictatorship have worn down the Cherished. They are ready to do whatever they can to keep the human race alive.

  12:13:46

  12:13:45

  12:13:44

  Each second is a knife driving through flesh to gouge bone. Our lives, our very existence as a people, are in danger of being snuffed out forever. This is more than just survival—for all we know, we’re the last of our kind anywhere in the universe.

  The doors to the TCC open. Young Gaston comes in first, followed by Zubiri, Borjigin in a wheelchair, then Old Gaston with Bishop right behind him.

  I’m sure the Admiral wants to overwrite his younger self, but Bishop will not let that happen. I need both Gastons right now. The Admiral has immeasurable experience and knowledge of the Xolotl. Young Gaston thinks faster and he’s got firsthand experience fighting the Wasps.

  I sent Bishop to round up these people. There has been no formal declaration of leadership, so I make it now.

  “I led the Cherished. I led the Birthday Children. Now I lead everyone. There isn’t time for debate. There are decisions to be made. I will make them.”

  Bishop simply nods once.

  The Gastons exchange a glance, but say nothing.

  Borjigin looks like hell. He’s hurting. Not as much as I was every day for centuries, but his pain is no laughing matter. There is no argument left in him.

  Zubiri, though, wrinkles her nose as if she just smelled something bad.

  “So, you’re Matilda in Em’s body?”

  Such a pretty girl. A shame she lost that arm.

  “Call me Mattie,” I say. “I am neither. I am both. But that doesn’t matter right now—I’m in charge, understand?”

  She nods, but that nose doesn’t unwrinkle. She’s less than convinced. I like her.

  “We have to act,” Young Gaston says. “They’re coming for us.”

  “I agree,” says his older version. “If it’s going to take a bloodbath, let’s get it over with.”

  It is difficult to see them next to each other. Part of me has known Old Gaston almost my entire existence. Centuries of working together, arguing, fighting side by side, killing, watching those we love die. He is the Admiral. He has seen us through countless technical difficulties and disasters that could have wiped us out. Another part of me has known Young Gaston almost my entire existence. The little boy who became a man. He’s just as much a warrior as Bishop is, as Em was.

  12:13:01

  12:13:00

  12:12:59

  “Admiral,” I say, “how long will it take to prep the five fighters for launch?”

  “I started that process as soon as you went into the coffin,” the gnarled old man says. “Arming, fueling and systems checks are already under way. The fighters have barely been touched in decades. Flight testing revealed multiple failed parts that must be replaced before launch. Some of them have to be fabricated from scratch. Crews need another six hours.”

  “And is the shuttle fueling as well?”

  Young Gaston nods.

  He is more perceptive than Bishop. Far more. Young Gaston has no illusions—he knows his dear friend Em is gone forever. Maybe he’s already cried enough, or maybe he will cry later. For now, he’s pushed his pain aside to focus solely on our problem.

  “Well done,” I say. “What is the flight time from the Xolotl to Uchmal?”

  Young Gaston’s eyes narrow. He starts to ask why, then checks himself.

  “Approximately one hour, fifteen minutes,” he says. “But remember, the fighters can’t fly in atmosphere. Only Ximbal can make that trip.”

  I look at the wall display, take in the position of the Xolotl, Uchmal and the Dragon.

  We have to try. “Borjigin, Zubiri, I need you to build a Goff Spear cannon in the shuttle, and I need it done in nine hours or less.”

  Borjigin gives his head a little shake. “A Goff Spear cannon. In the shuttle.”

  “Correct.”

  He blinks a few times. “I assume to shoot a nuke at the Dragon?”

  “Correct again.”

  He blinks faster. “And you want that done in nine hours?”

  “If you need me to repeat the whole thing, young man, I will.”

  “Ridiculous,” Zubiri says. “Strapping bombs to the wings is one thing. Engineering a cannon that can fire a round with enough velocity to penetrate that kind of armor is another. Ximbal is ancient. You want us to, what…to hack a twelve-century-old spacecraft? Make it do something for which it was never intended?”

  I nod. “If you can’t do it, the Xolotl will be destroyed, everyone aboard will die, and the human race might go extinct.”

  They stare at me.

  “Wow,” Borjigin says. “Not like you’re putting pressure on us or anything.”

  “I prefer reality over pep talks. And Ximbal will be going into combat, so make sure your cannon is well armored.”

  Zubiri holds up her hand palm-out, waves it in a wait just a minute gesture.

  “The Observatory’s Goff Spear cannon was twice as long as the entire shuttle,” she says. “Barrel length determines velocity. If we can find a way to put a launcher in Ximbal—and that’s a big if—the round won’t be moving as fast. That means the Wasp mother ship will have more time to shoot it down. I won’t explain the math, but it matters. To score a hit, we’d have to fire from very close range.”

  I was hoping for better news, but I’ll take what I can get.

  “You make it fire, I’ll take care of the distance,” I say. “We’ll assign every Cherished gear and half not working on the fighters to help you, but you two are in charge—make it work or everyone dies. Go get it done.”

  They trade one more glance, then they hurry out of the TCC.

  12:12:14

  12:12:13

  12:12:12

  “Admiral, give me a list of those who have fighter-pilot training.”

  Through Matilda’s memories, I recall how all symbols except circles received extensive training from ages four to ten. Neural programming combined with chemical memory coding and hands-on repetition resulted in hardwired skills. Just like Bishop knew how to perfectly throw a spear without being taught, Kenzie Smith knew how to heal and Borjigin knew how to fix machines, some of our people can fly the Macana fighters—even if they don’t know they possess that ability.

  Old Gaston calls up a list of seven names. Many of those names trigger partial impressions, snippets of a face or the color of hair, strands of moments we spent together. My head throbs—I can’t tell the difference between Matilda’s past and Em’s.

  Aramovsky, B.

  Dibaba, Z.

  Goldberg, M.

  Kalle, C.

  Kalle, C.

  McWhite, C.

  Walezak, B.

  Matilda’s memories roil like an angry ocean. No circle-stars were trained as pilots. The Founder wanted them ready to defend the Xolotl against boarders, or even board other vessels themselves.

  Pilots were drawn from SPIRIT, MIND and STRUCTURE. None from HEALTH, because doctors are expected to tend the wounded, and none from SERVICE, because how could a lowly empty manage the intricate complexities of a starfighter?

  Dibaba, Goldberg and McWhite…all Cherished. Matilda knew/knows them well.

  Kalle is there twice, once as a Grownup, once as a Birthday Child.

  Aramovsky and Walezak: our double-rings doing double duty.

  Five fighter craft. Seven potential pilots.

  “Young pilots are preferable,” the Admiral says. “So much of combat is about reaction time.”

  I don’t think Bernice Walezak can handle the pressure. Any mistake, no matter how small, could spell doom for all of us. I need people strong of mind. People like Kalle—both versions of her, I imagine. Neither will like this assignment, but they don’t have any choice.

  Is Aramovsky strong enough? He’s spent a year in t
hat cell and he didn’t crack. He was willing to die to stop me from killing Spingate. This is what he’s waited for, a chance to make good on what he did.

  “Aramovsky, Kalle—old and young both—McWhite and Goldberg,” I say. “Get them whatever refresher training you can come up with on short notice. Prepare Dibaba and Walezak as well. They’ll be backups in case anyone washes out.”

  “Tell me your plan,” the Admiral says. “Because if you’re going to fly five decrepit Macanas and a hot-rodded shuttle against the Dragon’s exceptional fighter craft, we might as well take as many drugs as possible so we’re stoned out of our gourds by the time the Wasps blast us to pieces.”

  Young Gaston nods. “You saw what happened to the Goblin’s interceptors. We can’t attack the Dragon head on.”

  “We’re not going to,” I say. “We’re flying Ximbal to Uchmal. We’re going to destroy the Grub.”

  The Gastons fall silent.

  Bishop smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  His eyes sparkle. He doesn’t believe what’s happened to me is permanent. He probably still thinks I’ll “get better,” that true love is patient, that someday we’ll settle down and have a family. The poor kid.

  “But that doesn’t help us,” Young Gaston says. “Even if you kill the thing, we don’t know if that will stop the Dragon from attacking the Xolotl.”

  “It might stop them, so we’re going to kill it, but that’s not the main goal,” I say. “The Grub doesn’t fear small weapons, but it does fear big ones. Like nuclear bombs. The Grub makes the species around it protect it, like a parent protects a child. I’m convinced the Wasps know we took at least one nuke with us. When Ximbal heads toward Uchmal, I think they’ll assume the worst-case scenario—that we’re going to blow up their new god. I believe the Wasps will scramble all remaining fighters to stop that from happening.”

  “That’s a lot of assumptions,” Bishop says.

  I nod. “Remember how you felt on the training ground when you attacked Victor from behind? You wanted to protect Em. Imagine feeling that way about the Grub, only a thousand times more powerful.”

  Bishop looks down. The memory of that moment still disturbs him.

  “She’s right,” he says. “If the Wasps think we’re attacking the Grub, they won’t take any chances. They’ll send everything they’ve got.”

  Young Gaston shakes his head. “So what? You just said the mother ship will attack us regardless. Why risk the shuttle to kill the Grub?”

  “We’re going to nuke the Grub, because it needs to die, but that’s not our main goal,” I say. “That strike is a functional feint to draw their fighter cover away. Once we destroy the God of Blood, we go full-burn straight up—we’ll use Ximbal to attack the Dragon.”

  The Admiral gives a slow, dramatic clap. “Well done, Empress. Only about a billion things that could go wrong, but if none of them do, we’ll have one shot at taking out their mother ship.”

  I smile at him. “You have any better ideas, old friend?”

  “If I did, I would have said so already. I’m in.”

  The younger of the Gastons is far from convinced.

  “The shuttle has slightly superior thrust in atmosphere, but once the battle moves into space their fighters will tear Ximbal apart. And the fighters won’t be the Dragon’s only defense. Just like the Xolotl, it will have onboard gunnery to combat any incoming threats.”

  I already know that, because the Matilda part of me remembers the battle against the Springer mother ship. The endless salvos of missile fire, both ships shooting down as many missiles as possible but some getting through. Both ships being hammered, over and over again.

  “That’s why the Xolotl will attack,” I say. “As soon as the Dragon’s fighters engage the shuttle, we change the Xolotl’s course and go straight toward the Wasp mother ship. We launch every missile we have, force the Dragon’s point-defense batteries to counter that assault. That won’t give our shuttle a free pass, but it might tie up their counter fire enough for the shuttle to get close enough for that single shot.”

  Bishop crosses his arms. “We don’t even know if Borjigin can build the Goff Spear cannon in time. If he can, we’re putting our faith in an untested weapon. If it fails, we need a boarding party on the shuttle. Maybe we can blast our way in, damage their engines, slow them down long enough for the Xolotl to escape.”

  Young Gaston sighs. “You know that’s a suicide mission, right?”

  “This whole thing is a suicide mission,” I say. “Even if the plan works flawlessly, Ximbal probably won’t make it back.”

  All three men nod.

  Bishop squares his shoulders, juts out his chin. “I don’t care. I’m going. I’d rather die on my feet than on my knees.”

  “Very dramatic,” Old Gaston says. “But don’t worry about your feet or your knees—you’ll probably die sitting on your ass in a gunnery chair before you even get close.”

  Twelve centuries old and he still feels the need to make sarcastic comments.

  “Bishop is going,” I say. “And so am I.”

  The Matilda half of me screams inside: Why did we go through all of this, why did I WIN, if you’re just going to kill us anyway?

  Em wants to live, too.

  I don’t care about either of them. I am Mattie. Mattie will do what must be done.

  Young Gaston sighs again, rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

  “Well, you two aren’t going to hog all the glory without me. I’ll pilot Ximbal.”

  “No,” the Admiral says, “I will.”

  There’s no room for misguided heroics. I need the best person for the job.

  “His reaction time is better,” I say. “You just told us that mattered.”

  The Admiral nods. “It does. Experience matters more, as does anything that would cloud the pilot’s thoughts at the moment of action.”

  The old Gaston turns to the young.

  “I didn’t have kids. I focused only on the mission.” He gestures to his withered body. “Then I did this, putting off a family until I reached Omeyocan and got my new body. After seeing what happened to Matilda when she tried to overwrite Em, I know that even if you and I agreed to join, both of us would end. Someone new would take our place. I can’t ask that of you. Your babies are the children I never had. If this plan succeeds, they need a father. I’ll have ensured my line continues. My life will matter. After all this time, it will finally matter.”

  The Admiral’s words echo Brewer’s. I feel the same. We’ve spent centuries bound up in a grand lie. This is a chance to do something good, something for others instead of for ourselves. We’ve lived our lives—it’s time for the next generation to live theirs.

  Young Gaston stares, dumbfounded, at his creator.

  “I thought you would try and kill me. Like Matilda did Em.”

  I start to remind him I’m still alive, but that’s not what he means. He’s right—Em Savage is gone forever.

  “You thought wrong,” the Admiral says. “And besides, I’ve been at Matilda’s side for a millennium. She doesn’t get to be the only one to die a glorious death worthy of song and legend. The two of us will go out in a blaze of glory.”

  “Hey,” Bishop says, “what about me?”

  Old Gaston glances at him. “I have bad news for you, son. I watched your progenitor grow from a boy into a man. No matter how old you get, you still won’t be able to grow a beard worth a crap.”

  Bishop’s eyes dart to Young Gaston, who grins and strokes his thick beard. Bishop’s face turns red.

  Men—we’re all about to die and he still actually cares about who can grow thicker facial hair?

  Young Gaston steps closer to the ancient version of himself, puts his right hand on the wrinkled old shoulder.

  “Hail, Admiral,” he says. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

  For the first time, perhaps the only time, Xander Gaston is humbled.

  Old Gaston puts his hand on
Young Gaston’s shoulder.

  “Say the truth, that we’re really doing this because I’m the best pilot that’s ever lived—you’ll have to tell your children that you’re the second best.”

  “Ah, I see,” Young Gaston says. “I thought I might eventually grow out of being an asshole. Good to know that will never happen.”

  The Admiral actually laughs.

  11:59:37

  11:59:36

  11:59:35

  I tell them the rest of the plan.

  Time waits for no man. Or woman. Or hybrid.

  2:26:14

  2:26:13

  2:26:12

  Beautiful, streamlined Ximbal looks like huge children grabbed it, shook it, dented it, then glued on whatever parts they could find. Man-sized ball mounts are crudely embedded on both sides of the ship, just behind and below the cockpit, and also on both sides just in front of the rear engines. Silver cannon barrels stick out of each ball.

  Nine hours ago, I put out a ship-wide call: We will soon be under attack. I need volunteers for a preemptive strike—but know that those who join me will not be coming back.

  There’s actually a small chance that we will be coming back, but I wanted people who were willing to give their lives for everyone else. I expected a handful of volunteers. I got hundreds.

  No time for vetting, for interviews, to establish who would be the best crew. I looked at the amassed Birthday Children, Cherished, New People, Springers, and I trusted my instincts.

  Circle-stars will man the new turret guns, and be ready to board the Wasp ship if that’s needed. Yong begged me to be part of this. I think he wants to die in battle, as any proper circle-star would. Joining him are Bishop, Bawden and Young Victor. They are our best marksmen, our best fighters, and that means we must have them.

  Old Victor asked if he could join. He begged, too, but his body has been failing him for a long time; there is no margin for error, so he stays here.

  If boarding is necessary, we also have two Springers with us: one of Barkah’s huge bodyguards—a male named Shumalk—and Lahfah.

  Barkah tried to stop Lahfah from coming. He’s too wounded to join, and even if he wasn’t, I’m not sure he’d volunteer. He ordered Lahfah to stay. She refused his order. He then ordered me to not let her come. I ignored him. If Lahfah is willing to do for her people what I am willing to do for mine, then that is her choice to make. Not his. Barkah tried to drag Lahfah away. I had young circle-stars remove him from the landing bay.