As they carried the corpses up to the fort’s main plaza, Jason could see some slaves heading back from the fields and pastures, others starting to prepare the simple evening meal. This was the most brilliant thing about the workings of the camp: how closely it resembled a colony that would have been run by, and occupied entirely by, humans. Food, shelter, procreation—all the same needs and desires addressed.
At first glance, this camp could have been a human colony. A colony of free humans.
Until you looked more closely, saw and smelled the thieves, noticed the riders.
Until you understood that even those who’d stayed human this long were here to serve the slavemakers.
* * *
THERE WAS NO need for iron bars or high walls here because there was no place to go, nowhere to run. The slavemakers saw all, knew everything, and always—in every case—pronounced sentence and administered punishment.
It had been years since anyone had tried to escape.
* * *
THE OVEN WAS located on the fort’s roof, overlooking the ruins of the old city, the channel, and Manda Island across the way. Sometimes the coals were kept banked—never extinguished—but now they were burning fiercely. Otherwise, their heat would not be strong enough to consume the bones of the dead.
Beside him, the thief rider pulled its stinger out of the flesh of its slave’s neck. It must have nicked a capillary, Jason noticed, because its usually shining white stinger was smeared with pink, and a tiny pearl of blood formed at the insertion point.
Then the rider rose into the air, hovering fifteen or so feet above them. At the beginning, Jason had wondered if separating a rider from its slave might let the slave become human again, but, of course, it hadn’t.
Not that it mattered. Riders and ridden were never apart for very long. And if a rider was killed—something Jason had seen happen twice—then another soon took its place.
Once this rider was safely above, Jason dropped the dead colobus on the ground. Bending over, he picked up a few of the ragged cloths—someone’s old T-shirt, what must once have been a festively dyed beach towel but was now just a smear of brown—that were piled on the reddish roof tiles around the oven and wrapped them around his palms.
Then, grabbing the oven’s steel handle, he swung open the rusty metal hatch. Hot air flooded out, hitting Jason like a slap. He took an involuntary step back, and noticed—as he had before—that the ridden slave did as well. Whatever was going on behind that expressionless face, and regardless of its great tolerance for pain, it did still have nerve endings.
Just as the rider that had retreated out of the range of the wave of heat had nerve endings. It could definitely feel pain even if pain didn’t stop it.
And even if its death didn’t make a bit of difference to the hive.
The thick bed of coals popped and roared at the influx of oxygen. With a familiar motion, Jason slung the monkey’s body onto the bed. The smells of burning hair and cooking meat immediately wafted out on the waves of heat. Flames rose and wreathed around the corpse, which twitched in the pyre as its muscles and tendons shriveled.
Stepping aside, Jason waited while the slave tossed its own burden onto the flames. Then, as quickly as he could, he closed the oven door and stepped away.
Turning his head, he looked out over the fort’s stone ramparts, as he always did when he was up here. Looking for just the slightest possibility that his world wasn’t the only world that existed. Hoping to see something—just a sign—that his future, the planet’s future, had more than one inevitable course to run.
Hoping for rescue. A squadron of Navy ships coming up the channel, shining steel blue in the afternoon sunlight, the roar of their engines splitting the air and sending the clouds of thieves spinning upward in a whirlwind of fear. An invading force of soldiers in full hazmat gear, safe from thief stingers and jaws, bearing weapons that would set the air aflame with gouts of liquid fire and turn the whirlwind into ash. And machine guns to tear apart the ridden slaves and the born ones where they stood, as they ran.
Or maybe drones. Jason remembered all the controversy over drones, over remote warfare, in those last years before the world ended. Now he dreamed of looking up to see a streak of light through the sky, like a shooting star in daylight but getting closer and larger with every passing instant. Then the shooting star, the missile, would slam into the fort, the impact and explosion reducing it and all it contained to rubble.
The born and ridden slaves would have no chance to take more than a single step. And the thieves would be unable to rise even into a whirlwind before being incinerated.
And if the humans who lived here, the still-human slaves, died in the assault as well, that would be all right. That would be fine. The kind of collateral damage not even worth thinking about.
And Jason? As the missile approached, Jason would do nothing more than throw his arms wide and wait for oblivion. Wait for it, and welcome it.
But when he scanned his surroundings, he saw only the same things he always saw: the corn and taro and soy fields and palm-oil plantations that fed the slaves, human and animal alike. And, as usual, Chloe supervising a group of born slaves working the fields.
Chloe, who, like Jason, had stayed human by proving herself useful from the very beginning. By planting the fields in the first place, by showing she knew how to cook for a crowd.
Chloe, with her long, lanky form—so skinny now—darkly tanned face and limbs, and mass of blond hair tied back in a ragged ponytail, was the reason Jason was still here. The reason, many times over, that he was still alive.
Chloe, his blessing and his curse.
As he was hers.
* * *
ON MOST DAYS, Jason and Chloe’s paths barely crossed until night had fallen and the slaves were all heading to the sleeping quarters. These were chambers buried deep within the stone walls, separate from but not much different than the cells where the animals were kept—rectangular, stone-walled rooms, their dirt floors covered with dirty straw, a single small glassless window in one wall to let in dim moonlight and breaths of fresh air. Sometimes.
Twenty or thirty slaves slept in each chamber. Cramped, crowded, filthy, but nothing compared to the hundred or so who’d been forced into them during the great slave trade of the nineteenth century. When the slavers had been some approximation of human themselves.
As they did every night, even in pitch-blackness, Jason and Chloe found each other near the corner of the wall opposite the window. Their usual sleeping spot. But even if it hadn’t been, they wouldn’t have needed to be able to see to recognize each other’s bodies, Jason’s compact and muscular and Chloe’s seeming made entirely of long bones and taut skin.
By now, Jason felt as if he knew the shape and texture of Chloe better than he knew anything else on earth.
Having located each other and, together, claimed their patch of straw, they lay in silence. Talking, casual conversation, wasn’t a punishable offense, until suddenly it was. And there was no way of telling when a slave—or even a thief—might take unexpected offense at even a casual sentence or two. So it was better to stay silent.
Sometimes this wasn’t possible. Sometimes you had to risk speaking just to remind yourself you were still human.
But this wasn’t one of those nights. So Jason just held Chloe in his arms, listened to her breathe, and on this chilly night absorbed the warmth of her body while giving her his own.
While all above and around them, coating the walls and ceiling of the chamber—of every sleeping and breeding chamber—were countless thieves, the cold-blooded creatures drawn to the mammalian warmth just as Jason and Chloe were.
Thousands of thieves, just inches or feet away from them. Eyes reflecting the starlight coming through the window, wings briefly buzzing as they shifted position. A moving carpet drawing as close to the human engines as they could.
And tonight, as on other cold nights, Jason awoke to find thieves crawling all over him. Dozens of them, the sharp ends of their legs pricking his skin, their arched bodies brushing against the hair on his arms, their odor filling his nostrils.
Their stingers just a few centimeters away from his flesh.
He could tell that Chloe was awake beside him. Lying still, as he was, waiting for the night to pass and day to return so the thieves would rise and depart.
A thief walked across Jason’s cheek. He felt the movement of mandibles at the edge of his mouth, and understood that it was not biting him—nor kissing him—but drinking his saliva where it had pooled between his lips.
This, too, had happened before. There was nothing to be done about it. Thieves loved salt, or salt in conjunction with the other chemicals that humans—primates—produced.
Jason thought this was why they always feasted on the eyes of their victims. They craved the salt in primate tears.
SEVEN
The Green Lands
THE WOODCHUCK CREPT carefully from the shelter of the woods into the grassy field beyond. It moved with a strange, humpbacked motion, slow and awkward, and the way it blinked in the afternoon sunlight gave it a dazed expression. Mumbling at the tall midsummer grasses, it looked about as threatening—and as easy to kill—as a caterpillar.
But the boy knew this was all a lie. A subterfuge. A woodchuck could move fast enough when attacked, and those mumbling jaws would open to reveal sharp, yellowing teeth.
Jaws that were powerful enough and teeth sharp enough to deliver the sort of bite that could easily end the boy’s life. Maybe not right away, but certainly as a little time passed. The boy had seen what a single bite could become, what it could do.
And anyway . . . anything that could live here, even in the green lands, deserved respect. The boy had seen plenty of creatures that weren’t strong enough to survive, and the bones of countless more that had already died.
So he didn’t underestimate the creature shuffling through the grasses. He never underestimated his prey.
The woodchuck, perhaps ten feet from him, sat up on its haunches and looked around. Hidden in a thicket just inside the forest, the boy stood very still and kept his breath down to the slightest vibration in his chest.
The instant the animal went back down onto four legs, he flew out of the woods toward it. The sensation really was like flying, like he imagined leaping off the top of his aerie might feel.
The boy was fast and nearly silent as he flew across the grass. And even as the creature detected his approach and twisted around, jaws gaping, he was bringing his stone club down on its skull.
One blow was all it took, really. The woodchuck, its skull dented on one side, blood pouring from its snapping mouth, writhed and spun in the grass before him. He watched it for a few seconds, then raised the club again and ended it for good.
* * *
HE SAT ON a big rock to skin and clean the carcass. Properly cured, the hide with its thick, glossy fur would become part of the blanket he’d use when winter came.
And the meat? It would be tough and gamy, but by midsummer, the woodchuck—itself preparing for winter—had begun to add fat to its flesh. The boy would get many good meals from it.
He was so intent on wielding his metal blade to cut every scrap of meat from the ribs that he didn’t notice the lion until it was perhaps far too close to him. Whether it had come after his meat or had chosen to try to end him right then, it might well have succeeded.
But it didn’t. It just stood there, half-hidden by the reeds that ringed the weed-clogged pond beyond, and stared at him. Long and slender, it had eyes that were the golden brown of the grasses that grew wild in the untended fields in autumn. The twitch of its long tail reminded the boy of the movement of the grasses as well, when the wind blew out of the northwest, bringing a hint of winter with it.
It was the first lion he’d ever seen, and its beauty seemed to fill his head. For a long moment, he and this magnificent cat looked at each other, neither moving. Then the lion gave its head a shake—the boy could hear the sound of its ears whipping back and forth—turned, and disappeared into the reeds.
Leaving the boy alone again, his heart pounding at what he’d just witnessed. Thinking about the animal he now shared the green lands with, and what that meant.
* * *
THAT HAD BEEN three years ago.
After the first encounter, the lion had mostly stayed out of his way. They’d come upon each other a few times since, usually in the more densely forested areas, but only when it hadn’t sensed his presence in time. It was inevitable that the two big predators’ paths would cross since the land that was good for hunting was only a few square miles in size.
On those rare occasions, the cat was always the one to turn away, to give ground, to cede authority. Never instantly, though. Always there was the same moment’s pause, the meeting of the eyes, the communication between them. I’m not afraid of you.
Not fear, but respect. And then the cat would leave the trail and quarter off through the woods, moving like a ghost, vanishing amid the sun-dappled leaves.
Mutual respect. Still . . . the boy always kept his stone club handy.
But the lion was no longer alone. By now, the population had grown from one to five. The big male that the boy had first encountered joined by a slighter, slimmer female. And then three cubs, which were now about two months old.
The boy stood in his aerie, just below the ruined stone castle, gazing down the slope to where the boulders tumbled into a murky pond—the place he’d been sitting when he first saw the lion, and now the female had chosen the same spot to raise her cubs. It made sense: The boulders made for a warren filled with hiding places.
On this warm day, all four, mother and cubs, were fully out in the open. The female was lying on her side, idly washing herself—the boy catching glimpses of her rough pink tongue—but mostly just soaking the sunlight into her tawny golden fur. Beside her, and sometimes on top of her, the three cubs wrestled and chased each other, or pounced and chewed on their mother’s tail.
The boy, watching, felt something move inside him. For just an instant, the control he always maintained slipped, and something more jagged emerged.
For that instant, he felt like bringing the cubs to an end.
It would be easy. Nothing was easier than a baby. He’d done it a few times, young birds taken from their nests, unwary squirrels venturing to the ground for the first time, even baby rats one long, icy winter when life had been especially hard.
He could have used a stone, or his club, on the female lion. A blow to her skull, and she would be no threat. After that, his strong hands would be enough to take care of the cubs, which he knew were still helpless without their mother.
It had never sat right with him, ending the young of any creature. But now the urge came on him, stronger than it had ever been. Powerful enough that it made his body shake.
He closed his eyes, knowing that he was leaving himself vulnerable. Part of him was still standing there, sensing every drop of sweat running down his face and tickling the hair on his arms and legs.
If some predator—like the male lion—chose this moment to stalk and attack him, he might not be aware of it until too late. Because most of him was far away, far beyond the borders of the green lands he ruled. Far beyond the wounded lands that bordered his kingdom on all sides, the jumble of people-made rock and steel.
And of bones, at least at the beginning. So many bones that he knew had come from creatures shaped as he was. But in his memory, only bones remained, and he knew that soon enough they, too, would vanish, and all that would be left would be the stone and steel.
The wounded lands, the dead place where he’d had the accident. He’d fallen, perhaps, or maybe a piece of crumbling stone had fallen on him. He didn’t remember. He only rememb
ered that the accident had almost ended him, that he’d barely made it back here to safety. Everything else was gone.
And realizing as time passed that the accident had also taken away his past. Leaving him as he was, alone. Alone in this world.
Standing still, the boy reached out. As always, he had but a single purpose.
At the beginning, after the accident, when he’d learned what he could do, the game had been easy to play. They were everywhere. They had no idea who, or what, he was. And they were swept away like grains of sand under the force of a great wave.
These days, they were warier, but that didn’t matter. He could still find them, he could still reach them, and still they drowned.
* * *
WHEN HE WAS done, he felt exhausted, as he always did. The sweat was cold as it dried on his body, and he shivered.
He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he had to eat. He kept food caches all over the green lands now—he’d nearly starved making his way back after the accident—and his biggest stores were buried at the foot of the statue of the dog, where underground springs kept his supplies cold.
But he felt too worn out to walk that far. So instead he turned and went up the slope to the castle ruins. He knew he had stored some smoked meat there.
But he’d taken only a few slow steps before something stopped him.
Another lion. But not in front of him. Inside.
Inside his head.
And not like the slender cats that lived here in the green lands. It was of a kind the boy had never seen before: much bigger, much stockier, with a great black ruff of fur outlining its massive head and flowing over its shoulders.
Something he had never seen here, or even imagined.
Something placed there. Shared with him.
But by whom?
The boy was taken apart, overwhelmed by a flood of emotions. Terror, excitement, others he could not name.
With all his strength, he reached out. Not knowing whether it was to end things or begin them.
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