Exo

by Fonda Lee

  There was an audible crack and Javid screamed, blood fountaining from his broken nose. Donovan tried to raise his body again, but two sets of hands grabbed him and hauled him back violently. Adrenaline surged; his battle armor poured forth into razor-sharp edges. “Don’t touch his skin!” the woman shouted. Donovan couldn’t stop his backward momentum; he fell, arms pinned painfully underneath his body. Sweeping his legs around in a windmilling arc, he smashed them across the woman’s shins, pitching her forward. So much for negotiation. He rolled over and clambered up, had almost regained his feet, when the butt of the other sape’s rifle connected with his head. Sparks erupted in his vision. Two, three, four more blows to the skull and Donovan felt his body fold and his cheek hit the ground, consciousness scudding away from him.

  Javid got up, his face covered with blood, and grabbed Donovan by the back of his jacket. One of the other sapes helped him—Donovan was too far gone to tell which—and together, they dragged him the short distance to the nearest algae tank. They heaved him bodily up the three short metal steps that workers climbed to check on the crops, and before Donovan could utter a final cry, gloved hands forced his head under the surface of the water.

  Thick, warm liquid the consistency of spoiled milk closed over him, filling his mouth and nose and ears. He twisted and writhed and struggled in panic and blind fear, but barely conscious as he already was, the oxygen fled his brain in seconds. His legs kicked against the tank, his armor rippled in mad death throes, his lungs shrieked for air it couldn’t get.

  He felt himself grow feeble. Jet!

  Desperate remorse over his own foolishness was his last emotion.

  And then the weight on his head lifted, and Donovan was yanked up from the tank. His insensible body collapsed and tumbled down the metal steps. Someone was screaming—Anya—Anya was screaming, and there was a great deal of other shouting and movement, and Donovan still couldn’t see or breathe. Rough hands undid the restraints around his wrists and thumped hard on his chest. Donovan’s exocel gave a heroic involuntary spasm, and he felt his lungs contract as if squeezed in a giant fist. His back arched. Gooey water sprayed from his mouth; he sucked in a burning gasp, turned over, and retched uncontrollably, heaving up sour-tasting brine over and over again until his vision throbbed with light and dark patches and he felt as if he’d been turned inside out. When there was nothing left to empty from his guts, he crumpled again, curled on his side, and became gradually aware of Anya’s arms over his shoulders, her slight body draped over his shuddering one, her hiccuping breath, and the tears streaking her face.

  “You stupid, stupid stripe,” she sobbed quietly. “Why did you come here? Why didn’t you stay with your own people?”

  “Couldn’t … let it all be for nothing …” Donovan whispered hoarsely. “My mom, my dad … everything.”

  “Get off of him, Anya.” Saul’s brusque voice came from directly overhead. “Go help the others watch over Javid, make sure he doesn’t try to do anything else asinine.” When Anya didn’t budge, Saul growled, “I said move, girl. We’re in a situation here, and this stripe and I have words to exchange.”

  Anya hesitated a second longer, then got to her feet and left Donovan lying on the floor, Saul standing over him. Donovan raised his head an inch off the ground. Bright patterns of dots still pulsed behind his eyeballs. He saw, some distance away, Javid sitting on the ground, seething, dripping with algae water, pinching his nose to stop the flow of blood that had dripped down the front of his shirt. The other two sapes, the ones who’d helped him try to drown Donovan, stood beside him looking angry and uncomfortable. All three of them had been relieved of their weapons, and some other sapes, presumably on Saul’s orders, were standing in front of them, keeping them well away from where Saul now crouched to speak to Donovan.

  Saul said, “You wrote that letter.”

  Donovan nodded weakly.

  “It was all wrong.” Saul’s glower was hard and accusing, and behind it there was pain. “She was executed the day after I got it. We never had a chance.”

  “I tried to save her …” Donovan wheezed. “But she made a deal with SecPac … asked to be executed right away … didn’t want you to risk yourself and the cause for her.”

  “No.” Saul’s face clenched; the planes of his cheeks stood out like stone bluffs. “It was a SecPac trick all along. They wanted her dead as soon as possible.” He brought his face directly over Donovan’s. “You’re lying to me.”

  “Am I?” He lay still, drained. “You knew her a lot better than I did.”

  Saul forced out a breath through gritted teeth. Then he lurched to his feet with an inarticulate noise of grief and rage. “Dammit. Damn her. How could she?” The Sapience commander paced a short circle in front of Donovan, his large hands clutched to his scalp as if he could tear out the hair he didn’t have.

  He stopped abruptly and looked down at Donovan. “She gave up Warde’s contacts, didn’t she? That’s why they were all nabbed so fast.” When Donovan nodded again, Saul let out a sharp bark of humorless laughter. “I warned him not to get on her bad side or he’d regret it. She never forgets or forgives.” He snorted loudly. “They won’t catch him, though. He left the doctor and the girl in a safe house for us to pick up and disappeared like a ghost, but he’ll be back. Man’s got more lives than the devil himself.”

  Shakily, Donovan rolled away from the pool of viscous liquid and vomit he’d been lying in and struggled to his knees. “You don’t have much time,” he said. “SecPac isn’t the powerful black guard you sapes think it is. It has to finish this tonight, no matter how bloody the results are, because it can’t look weak when it comes to shroom politics right now.” He told Saul about the High Speaker’s visit, the tension between the homeworld of Kreet and the zhree colonists of Earth, and the threat of the Rii—the scouting ships, the drones.

  “The Rii are a myth,” Saul growled. “A bogeyman the shrooms and the government use to keep us humans afraid.”

  “They’re not a myth,” Donovan said. “If you lived in the Round and could understand Mur, you’d know. Even if you could drive the current zhree off of Earth, others would come. There’d be a new War Era, and we’d start all over again.”

  Saul bent over and leveled a thick finger at Donovan’s face, uncompromising steel in his eyes. “Then we’d keep fighting. If we can chase out one set of invaders, then we’ll chase out another. There’s no limit to human determination. We’ll keep fighting for as long as it takes, until our planet belongs to us, or to no one.”

  Donovan stared past the finger into the man’s flushed face. “You want to keep fighting? Then you have to live past tonight. You have to know which battles to walk away from.”

  The Sapience commander straightened and stared down at Donovan as if he were a two-headed animal. In a lower voice, “You’re one of them. Why’d you risk your neck coming in here to tell me these things? And why should I believe anything you say?”

  Donovan crawled forward, across the walkway, to where the notebook he’d brought with him lay discarded on the floor. He’d taken it from his desk drawer just a few hours ago, slipped it into his inside jacket pocket, next to his heart. Now he picked it up with damp, trembling fingers and rocked back on his knees, holding it up to Saul.

  Saul took it. “What is this?”

  “Her notebook.” Donovan’s voice fell. “She used to write poetry in it when I was little. My dad threw out everything in the house that belonged to her, but I saved that one thing. It’s … it’s all that’s left of her now.” He blinked back the prickling in his eyes. “But it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs with you, because … because she belonged to the cause. Never to me.”

  Saul looked up from the curled pages he was flipping through. “This is terrible stuff.”

  Donovan smiled through pain. “Isn’t it?”

  Saul snorted a laugh. Tears filled the Sapience commander’s eyes and ran down the deep crevices of his weathered face.

 
Donovan said, “You used the information I gave you to murder my father. You were probably planning it for a long time, but I gave you the final piece. I ought to kill you. I ought to be glad to see SecPac light this place up and take you out. But my mom died wanting you to live, to keep going without her.”

  He rose slowly to his feet, putting a hand out to steady himself against one of the algae tanks. “I have friends waiting out there, and I don’t want to see them hurt. I don’t want the shrooms to force our hand and for people to die. I don’t …” He turned his face aside. “I don’t want anything to happen to Anya. Even if I never see her again, even if we have to be enemies, I want her to live. I’d like to know she’s safe for another day at least. And maybe one more after that, and one more after that … that’s all any of us can hope for.”

  When Donovan walked out of the building, he made it only partway across the field before Jet, Vic, and Thad rushed to him and brought him back to the safety of the nearest SecPac Humvee. Even Commander Tate looked taken aback by the sight of his bruised face and wet, algae-coated hair and clothes. “You were in there for ninety minutes, Reyes. I’ll have you know I’ve literally been holding back an army on your account.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. It didn’t go as smoothly as I’d hoped.”

  “Well, you’re alive,” she noted. “Do you have any other good news?”

  Donovan said, “They want five petroleum-burning cars with valid plates and full tanks of gas, which they’ll inspect. We’re to clear the entire area of any SecPac presence for fifty miles in every direction, leaving behind only one unarmed vehicle with me in it. They release the hostages to me, I wait here until I get a call from their leader confirming all the sapes have split up and gone free, then I drive the hostages out.” He gratefully accepted the hot-water thermos that Thad placed in his hands. “Alternatively, if we decide to attack the building, they blow the algae tanks with explosives and the prisoners drown before we can get to them.”

  There was a grim and resigned silence from the ring of assembled officers.

  Jet’s eyes appeared sunken into his skull, as if he’d aged several years in a single night. “So we have to let twenty hostage-taking terrorists walk out and go free?”

  Commander Tate grimaced. “To save civilian lives and avoid a complete public catastrophe?” She passed a sober look over her troops. “Yes, we do. For now.”

  The hostages emerged one at a time, dazed and blinking in the early dawn. Donovan helped them to the van, where a waiting Nurse and a nurse-in-erze—the two additional people SecPac had negotiated with the sapes to allow on site in addition to Donovan—wrapped the freed prisoners in blankets and checked their medical condition. Some of the humans cried; the two Engineers clung to each other with entwined limbs, making that low, barely audible susurrus of a zhree in extreme emotion. The hostages had seen everything that had happened in the building, and even if they hadn’t heard all the conversation, they knew they owed Donovan their lives—each of them came to clasp his hand in wordless gratitude, even the two zhree, who Donovan thought might never want to be near humans again if they could help it.

  The sapes piled into the cars in groups. Saul gave huddled instructions to each one. They would split up, disappear into the surrounding towns and countryside, rely on the nationwide network of Sapience sympathizers to slip away to wherever they needed to go to regroup and plan their next offensive.

  Javid was in the first car to go. His nose had been packed with gauze and the area under his eyes was bruised purple. The long stare he gave Donovan was acidic with hatred, and he was not much kinder to Saul. “This whole thing was a failure and it’s because of you,” he shouted from the backseat of the car, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “If you had half the balls that Kevin has—” Saul slammed the door on him and motioned for the driver to leave. The car rumbled away from the building, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel.

  Anya was to leave in the last car, with Saul and two other sapes. As she passed him, he reached out his fingers, and she reached out hers, and their hands met. She stopped, poised between one step and the next, her gaze luminous behind the faint steam of her breath. She glanced back at the algae farm, then turned aching eyes to Donovan. “This was it, you know. My home. This was where my family’s ranch used to be, before …”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Anya dropped her gaze. She whispered, “You really are different. Sometimes, you make me think that maybe …” She shook her head and didn’t finish. “I’m walking out of here alive because of you, I know that’s true.”

  It hurt to look at her. “That goes both ways.”

  Anya scuffed the ground with her toe. “If someone had once told me that I’d care so much about what happened to a striped exo, I’d have said they were cracked in the head. But when Javid … When I thought …” She raised her face abruptly and her hand tightened in his. “You have your armor and your people, but you’re not invincible. I hope you never do anything so dumb ever again.”

  Donovan looked at her very seriously. “That goes both ways too.”

  Anya’s bit her lower lip, uncertain longing in her eyes. “I wish …”

  “Me too,” he said. Then he leaned in and kissed her; Saul was watching, but he didn’t care. After everything he’d been through, everything he’d lost, he ought to have this one impossible moment to take away with him, to tuck close to his heart like a well-worn notebook. Anya tilted her face to him and her body softened, and the touch of her lips held a whole world of craving and sadness.

  He pulled away first, before he could get lost in her, before he could dwell on how much he wanted more. “You should go.” He gave her hand a final squeeze, then let it drop. He made himself smile. “Remember to stay away from stripes.” She turned from him, her gaze lingering over her shoulder, and he remembered to add, “By the way … go home and see your sister. She’s worried about you, you know.”

  Her eyebrows moved in a question, but Saul and the others were already in the car, and she turned for real this time and jumped into the backseat, pulling the door closed. Donovan watched the car turn onto the road and speed east, growing smaller and smaller. He sat down on the hard ground; out here you could watch someone leaving you for a long time before they were finally gone.

  The state funeral of Prime Liaison Dominick Reyes was a grand and solemn affair. Due to ongoing security concerns, the procession was confined to the Round, but the zhree allowed it to be filmed and broadcast around the world. People of every erze lined the spoke roads, reaching out marked hands to touch the flag-draped casket as it was carried, not to the sacred top of the tallest Tower, where the zhree atomized their dead, sending their spirits on to await the Highest State of Erze, but to the center of the city park, where he would be buried and memorialized, surrounded by the ongoing life of the Round, by hatchlings and children running between the trunks of the elm and oak trees.

  It was an oddly warm, still day, as if the first cold front had been beaten back and winter had paused in its advance to observe the goings-on. Donovan stood with Jet and Vic and the other stripes, avoiding the clusters of dignitaries and political staffers who kept coming up to offer him innumerable condolences. Although the zhree did not usually attend human ceremonies, there were many present to pay their respects to the man who had been their most prominent human ally. They stood in a polite semicircle as the minister read passages from the Bible and spoke of Dominick Reyes as a man devoted to his work, a man of unwavering moral character.

  Administrator Seir looked haggard, his fins drooping, his many eyes dull. Next to him stood Soldier Werth, his expression, such as it was, unreadable. At the edge of the crowd, Donovan picked out Therrid’s patterned hull, but the Nurse caught his attempt to make eye contact and deliberately closed two of his eyes, avoiding Donovan’s gaze. He’d gotten out of the locked room somehow but had said barely a word to Donovan since then, despite the latter’s numerous attempts to apologize and exp
lain. It was even more awkward because they had to see each other regularly; Donovan was still, technically, on medical leave—a fact that struck him as painfully funny. He could only hope the Nurse would come around; Therrid might not be talking to him, but at least he hadn’t reported him either. Yet.

  When the service was over, the politicians and foreign dignitaries began departing for their cars, conversing in hushed, sorrowful voices. The rest of the crowd dispersed in small groups. When most of the others were gone, Soldier Werth walked to where Donovan stood near the casket. Donovan dropped his armor warily—he couldn’t tell what his erze master thought of him now. It wasn’t often that an exo was reprimanded for disobedience and commended for heroic action in the same week. After a minute of silence, the zhree Soldier said, “He was one of the best humans I ever knew.” He touched the casket, then lowered his armor in respect. Donovan was stunned; Soldier Werth dropped armor for no one but the High Speaker.

  Werth focused his multi-directional gaze on Donovan. “When you are done here, report to me in the minor assembly chamber in the Towers.”

  “Yes, zun.” Anxiety formed hesitantly in Donovan’s stomach. Had Therrid reported him after all?

  Soldier Werth left, along with the other zhree. The remaining humans trickled away, except for Jet and Vic, who remained, holding hands tightly. Vic leaned her head on Jet’s shoulder and he kissed her brow, then rested his chin on the top of her head, looking out across the green lawn of the park. “You want us to wait for you?” he asked Donovan.

  Donovan shook his head. “No, go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Jet nodded. He put an arm around Vic, and with a final backward glance, they walked away, leaving Donovan alone with his father’s casket and the dense bouquets of flowers left by well-wishers. They stung his eyes with their riot of color, so summer bright against the beige of winter and the starkness of the nearly bare trees. So many of them. His father had been an important man. Maybe not loved but important. His mother too had been important to her followers. One of his parents had died a hero, the other a traitor. The planet could be divided based on who thought which was which. Donovan reached out and touched the draped flag.