by T. M. Catron
“We shall see who's to be punished!” Calla glared at him, but he only watched the burn below.
Then the wind changed direction, and the temperature dropped so quickly the hairs on Calla’s arms stood up. The Condarri fire extinguished itself, creating an updraft so powerful it drew ash and rock with it. When the flames disappeared, the ash hung in the air over the wasteland below.
Calla felt the summons. The subtle shift in Doyle’s posture told her he did too. As she had suspected, this bunker held some kind of significance for the Condarri. Otherwise the ships would have already disappeared. The Sacred Ones were on the ground, meaning she could watch them punish Doyle. Calla’s heart rate quickened, but she calmed it in case he sensed her eagerness.
On their way across the valley, they stopped at the campsite, now a field of ash. Golden dawn crept over the ridge, revealing devastation halfway up the mountains on either side. The fire had burned so hotly even the vehicles had melted to lumps of metal. A breeze caught the ash, blowing it about in little whirlwinds.
Doyle stopped Calla and nodded to the trees at the edge. A human stood there coughing. The same corporal they had allowed to live.
“Why did he return?” Calla asked.
“You still know nothing about humans,” Doyle answered. “He’s looking for survivors.”
The young man waved at them and then bent over, spitting soot onto the ground. Calla and Doyle walked toward the corporal, past hunks of melted metal, over bones turned to dust. As they approached, he noticed their weapons and straightened. The name on his uniform read Schmidt. Calla hung back. She had no desire to speak with the human.
Schmidt’s eyes watered as he tried to stop coughing. “Did you see the fire?” he asked.
“Came when we saw the smoke,” said Doyle. “You the only one left?”
The corporal’s breath exploded from his lungs, ribs almost cracking with his cough. He shook his head in between gasps as he sought control of his body. “I think so.”
“Okay.”
Schmidt took a few more breaths and then muttered, “All for nothing. Why’d we even come here?”
Doyle drew his long knife and slashed, blade flashing in the sunlight. The corporal thudded onto the ground in a cloud of ash, blood spurting from the severed arteries of his neck. Doyle cleaned his knife while Schmidt drowned in his own blood.
When Doyle turned away, Calla chided, “You just broke your own rule about leaving one survivor.”
“Just as well. He’s been inside the bunker.”
“How do you know?”
“Obviously, that’s why the humans are here.”
When Calla and Doyle found the concealed entrance on the mountaintop, they left their weapons and gear outside before walking down the metal stairs. Humans must have installed them, but they hadn't been maintained. The rust meant they had discovered the adarria long before the invasion—not that the humans would have known what the alien symbols were.
The writings in the tunnel remained silent as if dead, too ancient for Calla to translate. Could adarria die? She'd never considered it. They entered a dark space at the bottom of the stairway. More adarria adorned the walls to the left and right, in the shape of archways. These were silent and closed. Straight ahead, a tall arch opened into an even darker blackness. She walked through the opening ahead of Doyle.
Calla’s heart quickened a beat when she entered. In the darkness, Calla saw immense room in dark purple and blue hues. She expected a grand hall similar to the one on Condar. But it was plain—no adarria, nothing special about it except its round shape. So why did Condar want to hide it?
A presence towered in the center, and Calla and Doyle averted their eyes. The Condarri gleamed even in here, its magnificent body etched in the writings of its people, the writings that had a voice of their own. Calla’s own feeble markings were pale imitations of the grand adarria.
“Kneel.” The Condarri’s speech sounded like rushing water. Beautiful and terrible, dripping with power.
Keeping their eyes to the ground, Calla and Doyle sank to their knees. Calla glanced sideways at her companion who appeared relaxed. He wouldn’t be when Condar finished with him.
“Explain,” commanded the magnificent being before her.
Calla squared her shoulders but kept her gaze on the stone. Even looking at the Condarri’s feet was considered insolent. “My lord, this hybrid has disobeyed orders. He killed three loyal to us and spread false rumors. And he killed the hybrid suspected of murdering a Sacred One, without turning over the traitor or providing evidence of this heinous crime.”
“Your audacity has clouded your mind, Calla. Dar Ceylin has already provided evidence concerning this matter. When we released you, you swore to bring us new treason. What is it?”
Calla thought quickly. Doyle was hiding something. She knew it. Why couldn’t they see it? And if he’d already provided evidence, why had they released her? A single bead of sweat trickled down Calla’s back. She remembered darkness and mention of a woman, but she had no proof. She would need concrete evidence, more than just a memory, to indict Dar Ceylin. Without evidence, the Condarri would kill Calla for wasting their time, so she said, “It concerns the rogues, my lord.”
“You have disappointed us in this.”
“Yes, my lord.” Calla glanced at Doyle again and then dropped her gaze back to the floor. “Many have turned against us.”
“I do not want your excuses. Present the malefaction, or die.”
“The rogues are no longer scattering in separate directions. They have united to bring down the Condarri. They want Earth for themselves.” She hesitated. “They believe this site holds the key to overthrowing Condar.”
“Bring forth the hybrid who gave you this information.”
“My lord, he is dead. His name was Williams.”
“Who killed him?”
“I do not know, my lord, but I saw his body with my own eyes.”
“Show me.”
Calla gathered all her strength, recalling the memory. Williams had been shot in the head at close range, his pockets turned out. Calla reached out with her adarre, transferring her thoughts to her master.
Communicating with Condarri was different from with hybrids. The Great One seized her thoughts, seized her, draining her as it examined every detail of the body, then the memory of a live Williams bringing Calla information. The chamber turned cold. Calla’s body grew weak. The Condarri would kill her. She sank forward onto her hands in supplication. When it finally let go, Calla collapsed on the stone.
“Dar Ceylin,” said the Condarri.
“My lord.” Doyle spoke without hesitation.
“You will stop this. Do not allow the rogues and hybrids to unite! They must all die.”
“All, my lord?”
“My most loyal slave,” said the Condarri.
Calla seethed at this acknowledgement for Doyle. She struggled to return to her knees, to remove herself from the shame of her weakness.
“Your mission has expanded. Now that the traitors have divided you, they will no longer respond to the summons of Condar. No longer will you hunt rogues only. You must fulfill the destiny of the hybrids. Destroy every last one.”
“And Calla, my lord?”
“She is at your command.”
“Yes, my lord.” Doyle bowed.
Calla bowed too, bitterly recognizing her new position.
When Calla and Doyle emerged into the sunshine later, the mountain rumbled beneath them. Without a glance at him, Calla picked up her weapons. She returned her knife to its place and rounded on Doyle, who had already slung his rifle over his shoulder and was setting off down the mountain.
Calla grabbed her pack and caught up with him.
“What proof did you give t
hem?” She grabbed his arm and forced him to stop and meet her in the eye. “What proof?” she demanded.
Doyle shook her off and hissed, “So you can run back and refute it? Tell them I’m spreading rumors?”
“You owe me.”
“No, I spared you. The Condarri are tired of your incompetence. If I’d left you out here to keep blundering around, they would have recalled you, and you wouldn’t have returned.”
“You shame me! I don't need your protection!”
“No,” he said. “You have shamed yourself, but I still may have use for you. Try to keep up.”
And he stalked off down the mountain.
They found a small grassy meadow, and Calla used her adarre to send for the Nomad, calling it out of the sky. Since Doyle had stolen it, she’d had to return to Earth on the Condarri ship descending for the burn. The large war ship was completely different from the small, light ship now responding to her summons. She could feel it as it approached, almost like a caress at the edge of her thoughts. Then it tugged away from her, leaving her before it even reached the meadow. Someone else guided it. She snapped at Doyle, “NO!”
He sneered. “The Condarri put me in charge.”
“It doesn’t belong to you!”
“Nor does it belong to you. It was on loan to you to accomplish a task. Now that you’ve been removed from command, you don’t need your own ship.”
Calla fought him over it in a silent battle of wills. Again she commanded the Nomad to her and felt the ship shudder as it was pulled by two different biddings, like it had a few hours ago when Calla had called to it upon her arrival. When the ship descended a moment later, it still quivered as if in fear of the two that sought to control it.
When they entered, Calla walked upstairs to what had been her sleeping cabin behind the cockpit, only to find Doyle blocking the door.
“My command,” he said, “my ship, my bedroom. But if you want to share . . .”
“At least let me get my clothes.”
Doyle smirked and shook his head.
Calla scoffed and turned back to the open room at the stern. She stowed her small pack and went to the cockpit where Doyle had claimed the captain’s chair in the middle. Refusing to sit in a chair behind him, Calla stood out on the transparent nose of the ship, watching the land slip away below. Doyle thought he had the upper hand; he wasn’t bothering to disguise his contempt for Calla now. How different from before. She used to feel a kind of rush when she saw him, especially before the invasion.
The pecking order among the hybrids had always been simple—the strong survived, the strongest commanded. As Calla had proven herself, worked her way through the hybrid ranks, her circles had moved too. Eventually, she and Doyle crossed paths, both poised to oversee the destruction of Earth’s power grids, assessing the most detrimental places to strike, the most efficient in toppling world governments and crippling defenses. The Condarri could have just destroyed them all, but such an undertaking wouldn't have been logical. Despite their superior technology and resources, the Condarri race was a small one. They chose their battles strategically.
Doyle ignored Calla, directing the Nomad over the charred valley one last time before ascending high into the atmosphere. He was the most skilled hybrid she’d ever met. Intelligent, surly, deadly—Calla had admired Doyle the moment she saw him.
They met deep inside a bunker hidden high in the Alps, a damp concrete hole in the ground for housing and training hybrids. He had been training in hand-to-hand combat, having just spent a year spying inside the IDF. He stopped his training to look at her. Other hybrids watched the meeting with interest.
“So you’re Calla,” Doyle said. He looked her up and down as if he was considering a purchase. “Think you can beat me?”
She had accepted the challenge immediately.
That first time, Calla lay on the ground within seconds, fighting unconsciousness. She rose and challenged him again. Again she lost. Day after day, Calla confronted Doyle until once, she did beat him. He landed on the ground with his arm under him at an awkward angle, broken. Whoops and hollers of approval went up from the watchers. Doyle rose to his feet and nodded to her, dark eyes flashing. In admiration, Calla thought.
After that day, Doyle and Calla took turns challenging each other. They fought—not mere sparring, but real combat—to instruct other hybrids. They stopped just short of killing each other. Later, when the training facility sat empty, they met without an audience, enjoying the test. Sometimes Doyle won, sometimes Calla, but they always parted in mutual respect.
One evening they took their combat onto the glacier outside the mountain bunker. Doyle won. Calla brushed snow out of her hair as they looked out over lush mountain meadows and empty blue sky.
“I will never give up,” said Calla, “until I can beat you at everything.”
He smirked. “Then you’ll be disappointed.”
Despite her growing allegiance to Doyle, Calla yearned for more. The invasion drew close. Soon the Condarri would assign commands and give hybrids their specific missions. Doyle was a distraction, a plaything. Calla wanted recognition, and to get it she would need to set herself apart from the others, and from him, too.
And she had. Calla smiled to herself at the notoriety she had gained.
“I’m glad you find this amusing.” Doyle’s low voice brought Calla out of her thoughts. “But I fail to see the humor in our task, considering that if you’d found the rogues like you were supposed to, our job would be easier.”
“I have a plan,” said Calla. “We need to see Halston.”
“You’ve been trying to catch him for weeks. Do you suddenly know where he is?”
“I know where he will be.”
***
“Why are we hiding?” Lincoln whispered. They had waited in the damp beneath the tree for half the day. Baker shook her head.
They waited another hour. The day warmed, the air close and still beneath the tree. Lincoln shifted, trying to stretch out his cramped legs, but he couldn’t relax while keeping his feet hidden, so he folded his long frame again, leaning back against the tree. The forest remained oddly silent. Lincoln would have dozed in the heat if he’d not been wary of the gun still pointed in his direction. He wanted to ask Baker why she was holding him at gunpoint. He’d always cooperated with her.
Except when he’d tried to sneak off.
He sighed and turned his thoughts to the attack. The team had often wondered if the invaders would show up here. Lincoln regretted not leaving earlier. Colonel Nash, Schmidt—were they all dead?
He gazed out through the branches to the creek winding past. Sunbeams floated down to the forest floor. Something twinkled farther down the creek—a bird’s wing catching the sun. Lincoln rubbed his eyes and looked again.
It wasn’t a bird.
A giant golden-gray body moved through the trees across the creek. When it stopped, it could have been stone, a statue or ancient monument erected by some long-gone race. Deep etchings covered the invader’s entire body. They were identical to the hieroglyphs under the mountain that Lincoln had been agonizing over for weeks. Now he understood why survivors called the creatures Glyphs. He tried to look at its head twenty feet above the ground, but branches obscured it. As he watched, one of the symbols shifted slowly, almost imperceptibly, until it changed into something new.
The writings move.
Remembering Baker, Lincoln glanced at her. She held her breath, watching the Glyph with a look of wonder in her eyes. Lincoln imagined the same look on his own face. The two of them remained frozen as the Glyph moved on down the creek. It didn’t look like it was doing anything other than walking, but Baker shrank farther into the shadows, closing her eyes as if she were concentrating on something. Lincoln guessed she was trying not to panic. His own heart was beating so rapidly he feared the alien would hear it.
They waited all afternoon. Finally, at sunset, the birds began singing. First one brave song, then an answering one a
cross the glen. Soon they all chirped and sang, bursting out as if they needed to make up for their lost day of chatter.
Lincoln breathed more easily now and stretched his burning legs. He glanced at Baker and wondered how she would react with the camp gone. Her friends. The colonel. Lincoln shifted, ready to offer sympathy.
But Baker had relaxed against the branches. “Were you supposed to meet the others here?” she asked.
She sure didn’t waste time.
“Yes,” said Lincoln. He nodded in the direction the Glyph had walked. “You ever seen them before?”
Baker frowned. “No. You?”
“Nope.”
“Those symbols matched the ones you found in the tunnel, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Are they all copied now?”
“Almost, why?”
“Let’s get up there and finish. Maybe we’ll find Alvarez, Nelson, and Carter on the way.”
Lincoln almost laughed. “And Nelson thought I was obsessed. Look, I’m all for finding the others, but I sure as Hades don't want to go into that tunnel again, today or ever. What if more of those things show up?”
“Sounds like the Glyphs are gone though, doesn’t it?” she asked. Baker lifted her gun, gesturing for Lincoln to crawl out of their hiding spot. “We need everything copied, so if you want to leave, you’d better hurry and get it done.”
Lincoln sighed. What was the point now? Thinking Baker had become unhinged, he kept an eye on her as they hiked back up the mountain. Maybe the attack had tipped her over the edge. Regardless of her reasons, Lincoln didn’t call out for his team as they hiked. He didn’t want them to have to deal with Baker, too.
Day 85
“HERE,” SAID CALLA, POINTING TO a hologram of the Appalachian Mountains dotted with tiny red specks. She stood with Doyle in the stark hospital bay, the table between them. “The loyals are using these facilities.” She pointed to the locations on the map.
“Mostly groups of twos and threes. I can still find them through the adarre. Many of the initial human camps have been destroyed.”