by Scott Sigler
I take her hand. “I can’t trust myself, either. But I can trust us. Help me get this right.”
She squeezes my hand once, smiles at me, then lets go.
When I again look down the trail, I see something off to my left—the barrel of a musket, sliding out from behind a tree. A Springer, blue and wrinkled, aiming at me.
“Don’t move,” I say quietly. “They found us.”
I slowly look to my right—and see a second Springer, purple-blue, less wrinkled, mostly hidden by a fallen log. It is also aiming a musket at me.
Up ahead of us, a third Springer steps onto the trail.
Bullets are going to rip through my body, blast my brains out like Visca. I’m going to die here. On the Xolotl I would have become dust, but here it’s hot and wet. My body will rot away, drip into the mud.
“The spear,” Spingate says.
“They can see the stupid white flag. They don’t care.”
“Not the flag,” she says. “The spear. It’s a weapon. We made a mistake, we shouldn’t have used a weapon. Set it down, slowly, show them you mean no harm.”
Set it down? Is she crazy? They could rush us, beat us to death with the flat part of their muskets and not even have to waste a bullet. If I strike first, if they miss like they did last time, I could quickly kill the one on the left.
(Attack, attack, when in doubt, always attack.)
My father’s voice—again—but this time, my own voice seems to answer.
(Dad, shut the hell up.)
I tilt the spear forward, then let it go. It drops, wet white flag fluttering behind it until spear and flag both smack into the trail’s mud.
From farther down the path, a fourth Springer steps out of the jungle, skin of pure purple. It stares at us with three green eyes, then hops our way. The other Springers start screaming, a nasty sound that calls up Matilda’s memories of monkeys in a zoo. So loud, so angry.
My fingers flex. Without my spear, I feel naked.
Spingate takes my hand in hers.
“Be still,” she says quietly.
The Springer comes closer. It holds a musket, hammer already cocked. The barrel points to the side, not aimed at anything. I see a knife with a white bone handle dangling from a belt sheath. A hatchet is stuffed through the belt as well, its surface black save for a sharp edge that glints in what little light peeks through the storm clouds.
I’m letting Spingate control this situation, but I shouldn’t—she’s never been shot, she’s never fought, she’s just a tooth-girl who hides behind a desk while the real work is done by circles, while the real danger is faced by circle-stars.
I yank my fingers free and reach for the spear.
Her hand latches down on my wrist, squeezing so tight the bones of my arm pinch together. The pain surprises me; she’s far stronger than I thought. I look into her hard eyes. She mouths words: Don’t…you…dare.
She slowly stands straight. Her grip on my wrist forces me to stand with her.
The Springer stops in front of us. Purple skin wrapped in jungle-colored rags. Angry green eyes.
The others of its kind are still shrieking. They have come out from their hiding places. Musket barrels waver, as if the Springers aren’t sure where they should aim. It hits me—they wanted the purple one to stay clear. Now they can’t fire for fear of hitting one of their own.
I realize that I can easily tell these four apart. Their strange faces…at first I thought they looked the same, but now…not even close. And none of them are the ones Bishop and I saw earlier.
The purple Springer’s three green eyes bore into me, blinking slightly against the pounding rain. Purple doesn’t even seem to notice Spingate. Wet skin gleams. That skin looks…healthy. I realize Purple is shorter than the others.
Shorter, because it’s not fully grown.
When we first saw Springers on this path, two of them were children. Red skin. The bigger ones, the ones with wrinkles, they were blue. Do the Springers change color as they age? If so, the one in front of us isn’t a child, but it isn’t an adult, either. It’s somewhere in the middle.
Like us.
The other three scream louder. Their tone has changed from alarm and aggression to something that sounds like pleading—I think they are begging Purple to get away from me.
It lets out a guttural bark, a single syllable that rings with aggressive command.
The Springers fall silent.
Rain pours down.
Purple leans close, examines me. It wears the same multicolored rags as the others, but also something they don’t—a shiny copper chain around its neck that connects to corners of a copper rectangle hanging in front. The rectangle looks thick, heavy, with lines and swirls of a language I don’t recognize.
The Springer leans back. Its gun butt comes up so fast I barely see movement before the wood cracks into my chin. I stumble, the world spins.
Spingate reaches for me. “Em, don’t fight back!”
I hear a thonk, like a rock thrown against a hollow tree. Spingate falls face-first in the trail’s thin mud. I get to my hands and knees, try to rise, to fight, but pain explodes in my back as the gun butt slams into me again. I fall to my belly.
I roll left twice, fast, creating space between me and the Springer. I pop up on my feet.
Purple stands between me and my spear. Before the Springer can even aim its musket, I rush forward, kick up and out as hard as I can—the toe of my boot catches the big, frowny jaw. Three eyes wince in pain. It hops backward, trying to aim the gun at me, but I rush forward, duck under the barrel.
I reach for the knife hanging from its belt.
A hammer blow to my left temple. I fall to my knees. Something cracks against my right cheek. The other Springers, they rushed in while I grabbed for the knife.
Blackness comes in waves. I taste blood. I tuck into a ball, knees to chest, hands over ears, elbows tight in front of me. Musket butts hammer down, striking my shoulders, my knees, my shins, my back, the top of my head. So many hits, so fast—I’ve never hurt so bad in my life.
Yes you have…yes you have…you can’t remember because you don’t WANT to remember…
I think of my Grampa. I think of the canoe.
The beating stops. The echoes of each blow radiate across my body, waves of pain overlapping. I hear myself crying.
A growl, a chirp.
I open one eye. Spingate is on the ground next to me, tucked into a muddy ball. Sobs rack her body. I look up. Purple is holding a piece of fabric toward me. I roll onto my back, coughing, blood bubbling from my nose. The Springer stands over me, green eyes glaring down.
“Ponalla,” it says. The syllables don’t sound all that different from ones we would make. What does this word mean?
“Ponalla,” it says again, shaking the piece of fabric at me, insisting I take it.
I do. Rain soaks the cloth. It’s a drawing of a Springer. An excellent drawing, full of detail. And it…wait. Something about that face. I recognize it—it’s the Springer I ran through with the spear.
Purple stares at me. Those green eyes, so much like ours. I imagine I can read emotion in them. Hate, but also anguish. Sadness. Loss.
What have I done?
“Your friend,” I say quietly. I hold up the wet fabric, offering it back. “Ponalla…your friend.”
Ponalla was trying to kill me. Then it was just some evil thing that I had to destroy. Now, it has a name. It has a friend, heartbroken that it’s gone. In that way, it was no different from us.
I killed it.
And I didn’t have to. I could have run.
“I’m so sorry.” I know Purple can’t understand me, but the words come out anyway. “We were attacked, and it was confusing and I was mad, and…I’m so sorry.”
The green eyes watch me. Rage and loss recede briefly, replaced by confusion. Purple looks at the limp fabric in its two-fingered hand, then stuffs the drawing into its bag.
Spingate moans.
&nb
sp; “Stay still,” I say. “We’re in trouble.”
She slowly lifts her head. Blood and mud sheet her face like a dark mask.
Purple takes a single hop back, raises the musket, points it right between my eyes. I’m staring into a circle of blackness, knowing it will be the last thing I ever see.
The other three Springers hop over, raise their weapons. The four of them stand side by side. They are going to execute us.
Time slows. The smell of the wet jungle in my nose. The feel of damp air in my lungs. Perfection. The sky, red sun blocked by clouds. The rain on my face. The taste of my own blood—everything is so wonderful. How could I not have savored these things every second I lived? Even the Springers are beautiful in their own way. Sights, scents, sounds…
Wait…I only hear the rain.
The jungle makes no noise.
Behind the Springers, something silently rises up. Something dirty-yellow…
A snake-trunk snaps forward. Pincers drive deep into the far-left Springer. It screams, a wet sound of shock and surprise as bluish blood spurts from its mouth.
At the edge of the trail, the monster rises up. Much bigger than the one I saw before. The snake-trunk coils, lifting its victim high. The other Springers turn, their long guns awkward and hard to bring around. The snake-trunk whips down, smashing the already-dying Springer into another, crushing them both to the muddy ground.
Bang!
A Springer fires. If the bullet hits, it does nothing. The snake-trunk lifts—one Springer hangs limply from the pincers, another stays facedown in the mud, shattered and still. In the same instant, the dangling victim is again used as a weapon; the trunk slams it into the Springer that just fired. I hear bones snap on impact, see the shooter’s upper leg bend where it should not.
Spingate pulls at my arm. “Come on, Em, run!”
The ground seems to hold me tight.
Purple stays calm despite the murderous beast standing only a few steps away. Purple takes aim—bang! Chips splinter from the bony chest plate. The monster stumbles. Pincers open—the broken and battered Springer drops onto the muddy path. It doesn’t move; it will never move again.
The broken-legged Springer crawls down the trail, desperate to escape. A white bone juts from its thick thigh. Blue blood spills from that wound out into the mud.
Purple snatches up a fallen musket. He tries to aim, but the snake-trunk whips sideways, sending him tumbling into the wet underbrush.
Spingate pulls desperately at my arm.
“Get up! Please, run!”
I can’t, but not because of fear. Purple is trying to save his friends. I killed Ponalla—I have to help Purple, I have to make things right.
The monster’s pincers snatch up a Springer corpse, shove it into the wide mouth. Bite, rip—the body is torn in two. A leg falls free into the mud. Chomp-chomp, swallow.
It stops eating: it sees the crawling Springer. The monster drops the half-body and moves toward this live prey, clawed feet splashing against the trail.
My spear. I rush to it, snatch it up. The handle is slick with mud. I tear off the stupid white flag and toss it away.
The Springer with the broken leg crawls toward me. Just past it, the monster.
A flashfire memory, but not one of Matilda’s…Bishop, in the hallways, hurling the spear at the fleeing pig. A vision of magnificence. I saw how he threw…I can do the same.
I heft the spear in my right hand, find the balance point. My fingers close on the shaft. Loose, not too tight.
My target: a crack in the beast’s breastplate, leaking pink blood.
The monster’s long-toothed mouth opens, roars, and on it comes, clawed paws splashing in the thin mud.
The wounded Springer crawls faster. Not nearly fast enough to escape.
I step back with my right leg and point my left arm forward, toward the charging nightmare. I push off my right foot, lunge forward, plant my left foot and I throw.
The spear hisses through the rain. The metal spearhead thonks into the bone plate, in and through.
The monster staggers. Six black eyes blink. Spear sticking out of its chest, the monster changes its target—it starts toward me.
Purple rushes out of the jungle, short-handled axe in one hand, long-barreled musket in the other.
The monster sees him coming, swings a huge, mud-trailing paw at Purple, but the Springer ducks, slides across the wet ground, under the claws. Purple plants big feet, hops up and jams the musket barrel into the cracked, bleeding breastplate right next to my spear.
Boom!
Not much smoke this time—because most of it went inside the beast’s big body.
The monster’s legs wobble. Stagger-stepping right, it falls hard on its side. Big chest, heaving. Snake-trunk twitching, coiling absently. Legs stretching out as if the creature just woke from a nap.
It’s still moving, but not for long: Purple attacks with the hatchet, hammering a spot between the two rows of black eyes. Swing, thonk! Swing, thonk! Swing, thonk!
I tear my eyes away from the brutal finish.
Spingate is kneeling next to the Springer with the broken leg. It trembles and twitches. From pain or terror, I’m not sure.
The rain washed away some mud from Spingate’s face, exposing a huge cut on her forehead that gushes red. She puts her hands on the Springer’s body, talks in a soothing voice.
“We won’t hurt you. It’s over. It’s over.”
She’s trying to help, just like she did with Yong back on the Xolotl. That boy, that terrified boy, lying on the dust-thick floor between us, crying for his mother, bleeding to death because I stabbed him in the belly.
Was that only a few days ago? We were so young, so scared. It feels like a lifetime has passed since that moment.
Spingate pets, coos, keeps talking softly. It seems to be working. The Springer’s shaking diminishes, even though I still see pure terror on that strange face—it is hurt so bad it can’t flee, and it is at the mercy of what it must think of as two hideous aliens.
The jungle noises fade in. A few howls, an echoing hoot, and then the buzz of life joins the roar of the rain.
The monster is dead.
I turn.
Purple stands there, only a short hop away. In one hand, the hatchet, dripping pink, spotted with wet chunks of white. In the other hand, my spear, the blade coated in pink slime.
Purple glances down at the wounded Springer, at Spingate. She doesn’t bother to look up, she keeps talking softly, keeps petting.
“We tried to help,” I say. “We saved your friend.”
Green eyes flick back to me. Still so full of hate, but there is something else there, something I can’t read.
“I’m sorry I killed Ponalla,” I say. “I truly am.”
Seconds pass. The four of us—two humans, two Springers—do not move. I listen to the rain. I listen to the jungle.
Purple raises the spear. I close my eyes—I’m just too tired to fight anymore.
Something hits the ground in front of me.
I look—my spear lies flat at my feet.
Purple shoves the handle of the gore-splattered hatchet into its belt, then hops to its friend. Spingate scoots back, wanting desperately to help, knowing she can’t.
Purple’s thick hands grab the wounded Springer’s leg, one on either side of the disgusting break. The wounded Springer says something soft and short, then Purple yanks. I see the bone slide back into flesh, hear a disgusting crunch-snap. The wounded Springer’s toad-mouth opens in a silent scream.
Purple beckons me to join him. He pantomimes, points to the wounded Springer, points to his own narrow shoulders, points down the trail. I think he wants me to help carry his friend. I don’t know if I’m strong enough, but I have to try.
“Spin, gather up the muskets,” I say. “And take the bags of the two dead ones.”
Booted feet splash through the mud as she runs to obey.
I look at Purple, nod.
It g
runts something unintelligible. We both get under the wounded Springer’s arms, and we lift.
Good gods, it is heavy.
Struggling to stay upright, I let Purple guide us down the trail.
The wounded Springer, it’s warm. The Grownups were cold, disgusting. The Springer is neither: if I close my eyes, I could believe I was helping one of my own kind. It would feel much the same.
It is all I can do to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The wounded Springer’s weight is harder on Purple than it is on me. He can’t hop, he has to put one foot in front of the other—a movement that turns him from graceful leaper to stumbling, awkward walker.
We struggle on for a long while until Purple finally stops. He points off to the left. Through the trees and the pouring rain, I see a six-sided ruin. Most of it is knocked down, vine-strangled like everything else on this planet, but part of it still stands. Matilda’s memories call up something from our childhood—am I looking at a church steeple?
At the very tip, a copper sphere. Two rings surround it, the inner one with two opposing dots, the outer with four.
Spingate catches up, struggling under her load of muskets and bags.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she says, staring up at the steeple. “That’s the same symbol we saw on the Observatory. If we’re the first people here, how can the Springers have that same symbol?”
I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want to help keep this wounded Springer alive. Maybe that will balance against all the killing I’ve done.
Maybe.
Purple adjusts his position under his injured friend. I do the same. Together we walk toward the steeple.
I use the tiny scissors to cut the last stitch, then put them back into the white case Spingate brought.
“All done,” I say.
Spingate sighs. “How does it look?”
It looks awful. The bump on her head has a jagged red line across it marked with six ugly black stitches. It would have looked bad even if I didn’t have two broken fingers, swollen and screaming each time I move.
“It looks fine,” I say.
“Liar. Gaston will think it’s hideous.”
We’re inside the steeple, the base of which is a decent-sized room with an uneven floor, part stone, part dirt. We sit on chunks of broken wall surrounding a small, crackling fire. The place smells of smoke, dampness and burned toast. Rain drips in through multiple cracks, creating several twitching mud puddles.