Alone

by Scott Sigler

  Just as I enter the small space, the third Springer comes straight at me, long hopping steps closing the distance. I raise my arm and flick my fingers. A beam of white light shoots out…

  …and misses.

  The Springer ducked down and to the left.

  The bracelet needs a moment to recharge, something the Springer seems to know.

  “Yalani, nahnaw,” it growls: Kill their leader.

  It recognizes me.

  My enemy lunges forward, bayonet point driving at my belly. I sidestep, sweeping the spear in front of me, knocking the musket aside.

  Everything happens so fast. I have a moment to strike, but I hesitate and that moment vanishes. The Springer’s wide mouth curls into a very humanlike, hateful snarl.

  Bawden screams again. A snap-glance: the second Springer’s bayonet is buried in her thigh.

  We are all so close together, two humans and three Springers, walled in by a circle of flame, locked in a fight to the death.

  The burning corn seems to blast apart—Victor bursts into view, startling all of us. Flaming cinders and sparks cling to his black coveralls. A vision of fire and rage, he steps forward and thrusts his spear—the blade punches deep into the guts of Bawden’s attacker. Without a pause he yanks the weapon free and stabs it home again.

  A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye is the only warning I get, but it is enough. My attacker thrusts again, driving the bayonet at my face. I flinch and turn: the point slashes my cheek.

  Then Victor is there, closing the short distance with two fast steps. The Belligerent turns to face him, but three eyes take in Victor’s bracelet point, aimed right at the wide mouth.

  “Gaintox,” Victor says, loud but calm. His stare is steel. His arm and fist are rock-still.

  The Springer tosses the musket aside, then kneels in the ash.

  The small child soldier, the red-skinned one, lies still, eyes wide open and unmoving. It’s dead. The third rolls in the dirt, hands on its belly, thick fingers smeared with blue blood. I wish I couldn’t hear its wail of pain and fear, but there is no shutting that out.

  The fires are fading fast. Tall young corn quickly becomes ankle-high embers.

  I hear no more gunfire.

  This fight is over.

  Morning dawns on Omeyocan. Blurds buzz through air that smells of wetness and mud.

  My spider marches on.

  Victor drives. Bawden lies on the small deck at our feet, asleep. We stabilized her wounds. Her injuries are bad, but not life-threatening—she’ll be all right once we get her into Smith’s medical coffins.

  We have a guest crammed into the cockpit with us: none other than Barkah, the Springer king. He’s on my left, pressed in between me and Bawden. I smell the burned-toast scent that has become so common I almost never notice it unless I’m very near a member of his species.

  Gone are the jungle-colored rags he wore when we first met. His orange jacket is smooth and wrinkle-free, dotted with intricate patterns of colored glass. I think the orange clashes with his reddish-purple skin, but we’ve found that Springers’ taste in fashion is far different from ours.

  Barkah lost his middle eye in our fight with Matilda and her Grownups. He wears a patch over it: orange, made from the same fabric as his coat. The two eyes that remain are a pretty shade of emerald green.

  An intricate copper plate hangs from his thick neck. The Springer equivalent of a crown, it marks him as royalty. The polished metal gleams in the reddish morning sun. Everything about Barkah now seems polished. He is so different from when I first met him in the jungle.

  This road, too, is different from when I first saw it. It was a footpath through the trees and vines, so narrow you felt leaves brush against you on both sides. Now it is wide, cleared of plants. The surface is an uneven mishmash of dirt, stone, gravel and flat bits of broken buildings. While it is a far cry from the highways of Matilda’s memories, this is the greatest road Omeyocan’s jungle has seen in at least two centuries.

  Trees rise up on either side, as do the shattered, vine-covered buildings of the once-massive Springer city. The ruins are vast. No matter how much progress we make, they will be here for centuries to come.

  My spider marches in a long column made up of the two other spiders in my platoon, our circle-star infantry, D’souza’s snake-wolves, and Farrar’s squad, which has a place of honor directly behind Barkah and me. A few of Farrar’s circle-stars suffered wounds when the Belligerents attacked, but our trap closed so quickly that they didn’t have to fight for long.

  Shockingly, we didn’t lose a single person. Luck? Superior tactics? Superior weapons? I don’t really care which, I’m just happy that we don’t have to dig yet another grave.

  Barkah’s foot soldiers march with us as well, two long lines that flank the fifteen Belligerents who survived the battle. Each prisoner wears one of those telltale strips of red cloth somewhere on its body. Most of the prisoners are wounded.

  I glance at Victor. His face and hands are dotted with burns. Our coveralls are flameproof—another legacy left by the Grownups—but there was no protection for his exposed skin. Some of the dirty-blond hair on the right side of his head is gone, replaced by a red and black burn. It looks painful. If it is, Victor shows no sign.

  He fought flawlessly. Fast and efficient, no wasted movement. He killed one Springer, yes, but took a prisoner, as I requested. Not only can he fight, he follows orders. Unlike Bawden. She ignored my commands, almost got herself killed, almost got me killed. It’s just not like her.

  I’ll let Bishop figure out what to do about her actions. He’s in charge of our “military,” what little of it there is.

  Bishop. I haven’t seen him in over a week. I can’t wait to see him again.

  Victor notices me looking his way.

  He smiles. “You were amazing, Em.”

  I laugh. “Me? You should have seen yourself.”

  “You were in danger,” he says. “I’d do anything to protect you. Anything.”

  To protect me, Bawden…everyone, probably. Victor is a circle-star, born to defend us all.

  “Are you excited to see Zubiri?” I ask. “It’s been ten days since you two were together.”

  He shrugs, looks forward. “I suppose. She’s nice, but I think I enjoyed being in the jungle with you more.”

  Maybe he’s still excited from the battle. I’ve seen the way Victor and Zubiri adore each other. Once the thrill of the fight has worn off, I know he’ll be ready to spend some time with her.

  But the love lives of my people aren’t important at the moment. We fought, we won, and now I need to focus on bigger issues.

  I turn to Barkah. “I’ll ask you again—what’s going to happen to the captured Belligerents?”

  He snorts, indicating his disgust. The Springers have some very humanlike mannerisms. Or is it that we humans have Springer-like mannerisms?

  “They traitors,” he says. “They earn punish.”

  A Springer’s wide mouth and thick throat can make more sounds than we can. Chirps and clicks, growls and glassy tones, as well as most of the noises that go into our human words. When Barkah addresses a crowd, his words boom with volume and power. But when he speaks one-on-one, his voice sounds coarse, like spilled gravel.

  Barkah has learned English at a frightening pace. Even though he doesn’t have all the words right and has trouble forming sentences, he can carry on full conversations. His grammar is off, but I understand his tone—when he says the word “punish,” he’s excited.

  “If you kill them, we won’t know if there are more,” I say. “Or where they’re hiding.”

  Barkah laughs, a sound that always reminds me of a boot heel grinding broken glass against stone.

  “What they know, I know. They talk.” He frowns, knowing he missed a word. He glances at me. “They will talk.”

  We ride on in silence.

  Barkah has changed. A year ago he tricked me. His friendship was a ruse, a way for him
to kill his father and become king. I knew then to never trust Barkah. I still don’t, but he’s proven to be a good leader for his people. He led them aboveground. He ordered this new city to be built. When he negotiated with me about human-Springer relations, he was always firm, but fair.

  Then the fighting between our peoples flared up again.

  Since the Belligerents started attacking, I feel like Barkah has become…meaner. I suspect the biggest reason we haven’t taken prisoners so far is because his troops are merciless. Maybe even cruel.

  I don’t know what is going to happen to these captured Belligerents. Nothing good, I am sure. I want to take them back with me, put them in the Observatory’s prison cells. There, at least, they would be fed and we could heal their wounds.

  But that choice isn’t mine to make.

  I’ve already tried to pressure Barkah into turning the prisoners over to us. That made him angry. Very angry. Right now our two species are cooperating. At least the ones under his control are. If he was to turn his people against us, join with the remaining Belligerents—or even other tribes—and attack Uchmal? We’d be outnumbered at least a thousand to one.

  I don’t dare risk our uneasy truce. When it comes to the Springers, what Barkah wants, Barkah gets.

  We are entering the small Springer city. Barkah hops up on the spider’s back, waves Lahfah forward to join us. He is the king and, even though she lives in Uchmal with us, she is his queen—he wants his people in the city to see the royal couple arrive together.

  A hurukan trots up beside us, Lahfah atop it. Even though we fought together, she’s been deep in the jungle with her platoon and hasn’t talked to me in days. When our eyes meet, she lets out an oh-so-familiar bellowing laugh that sounds like the tinkling of broken glass.

  I killed a living, thinking being only a few hours ago. We buried eighty-three enemy bodies. One of my own almost died. Those things hang heavy on my heart, to be sure, but to lay eyes on my friend makes me all smiles.

  “Hem,” Lahfah says. She is as delighted to see me as I am to see her. “Face good?”

  “I am fine. Thank you for asking, Lahfah.”

  Lahfah has trouble understanding the difference between the words you and face. They seem to mean the same thing to her.

  She tried to greet me in my language. I try to do the same for her.

  “Nin yawap tallik ginj?”

  Lahfah screams with delight. Looks like I said it right for once. How about that? It’s only taken me a year to learn how to say the equivalent of “Do you feel well?” Barkah can converse with any of my people, while the best I can do is manage a few pleasantries with his.

  Barkah barks a single, harsh syllable. Lahfah stops laughing. She’s obeying his command, but doesn’t look the least bit upset at his tone. She’s used to it. In that way, their relationship reminds me of the way Spingate treats Gaston.

  Part of what makes Barkah an effective leader is knowing what looks impressive. Coming into the city after a successful battle, with prisoners in tow, riding side by side with the human leader on a human war machine? For Springers, it’s hard to get more impressive than that.

  That’s why he insisted my troops ride with him into Schechak. He’s the king, but not everyone’s king. The Belligerents are proof of that. Some of his own subjects are among the Belligerent dead and captured.

  The wide road we’re on runs through Schechak and then straight on to Uchmal. Such a contrast between the two cities. Uchmal’s vine-covered walls rise high, an intimidating message of strength and accomplishment. In comparison, the Springer city seems like little more than an overpopulated frontier town.

  Some of Schechak’s six-sided buildings are new, made from rocks and chunks of ancient buildings mortared together with concrete and even dried mud. Most buildings, though, are repaired ruins. Every building is topped with a pointed, six-sided thatch roof woven from the blue stems of jungle vines. The smaller buildings are houses or shops. Larger buildings have brick smokestacks rising up from the sides. These are the Springers’ new factories, where they weave fabric, cut cloth, forge metal, hammer out tools and weapons or process food.

  A year ago, the land that is now Schechak was nothing more than ancient ruins. Springers continue to migrate here from all across Omeyocan. Borjigin tells me that Schechak’s current population is already over five thousand. In another year, how many Springers will live here, only a short march from our own city gate?

  The wide road leads through the city. Springers are gathered on either side, packed in deep. They cheer, a crazy yell that sounds a bit too much like Matilda’s memories of croaking toads. Springers lean from the windows of the six-sided brown buildings. Many sit on the blue roofs. All welcome their victorious king back from battle. Music blares, several instruments and several songs all fighting against each other for dominance.

  Whenever I visit Schechak, vendors are hawking everything you can think of. This time is no exception. Fabric, clothes, furniture, food, polished glass, raw metal…it’s all for sale. I see vendors in the crowd waving beautiful woven tapestries and detailed paintings, wood and stone carvings so lovely they take my breath away. I’ve traded for many pieces of Springer art that decorate my house. Maybe my people will learn how to make art, but if so that will be many years in the future. For now, the Birthday Children have more than enough real work to keep us busy.

  Barkah plays to the crowd. Instead of waving at his people, which humans would do, he tilts his head up in a quick jerky motion. It always makes me think he’s having trouble swallowing something.

  A flash of movement overhead makes me flinch. A rock, but not thrown my way. It crashes into the head of a marching Belligerent prisoner, makes the already wounded Springer stumble. More rocks fly out, as do rotten fruit, garbage, sticks and clumps of dirt, hitting and splattering the prisoners.

  I wait for the Springer guards on either side to stop the assault. They don’t. I look to Barkah, knowing he won’t let this shameful act continue.

  He doesn’t say anything. He stares straight ahead, thrusting his chin up and out at his loving subjects.

  “Your Highness,” I say, and this time it’s my tone that carries the meaning, “I remind you, again, that I want to talk to these prisoners. Will any of them still be alive when I come back in a few days?”

  Barkah looks at me. His green eyes are piercing, intelligent, calculating.

  “Some will live,” he says.

  At the city center, the road bends slightly left. When we make that turn, I see a wooden framework, so new some of the lumber sparkles with fresh sap. It’s like a small building without sides. No…it’s a stage.

  At the center of that stage, two thick poles stick up, joined together by a long crossbeam. From the crossbeam hangs six ropes, each ending in a noose.

  Matilda’s memories flash, define what I see, and I’m horrified: I am looking at a gallows.

  I grab the shoulder of Barkah’s fancy orange coat.

  “You’re going to execute them?”

  Barkah looks at me, then at my hand. I’m suddenly aware that we’re surrounded by thousands of his people. Three spiders, a few snake-wolves and a dozen circle-stars are a dangerous force, but in the middle of the Springer city we would be overwhelmed in seconds.

  I let go of his coat, smooth out the fresh wrinkles. I smile warmly at him for the benefit of his watching people.

  “Execute,” I say quietly. “Prisoners…nahnaw?”

  He looks forward.

  “Some will live,” he says again.

  I feel a chill inside. It stuns me that I once thought of Barkah as my friend, that we were like-minded individuals. I sought peace—he sought only power. He used me then. He uses me now. He will hang some of the prisoners, make an example of them, show his people what happens if they cross his will.

  “You can’t kill them,” I say. “They surrendered.”

  His two good eyes blink slowly. His chin juts out, brings cheers from his subjects.r />
  “Not your laws,” he says. “Not your culture.”

  He’s being pleasant enough, but his message is clear. Unless I want to start a war, there is nothing I can do. Does respecting another culture mean standing by idly while prisoners are tortured and murdered?

  “Barkah, we’re leaving,” I say. “We have to return to Uchmal. Victor, stop and lower.”

  Victor stops the spider. The machine lowers until the metal belly clangs against the broken road. Maybe Barkah thought I would drop him off on his gallows, so his people could see how the humans serve him so well, but now they can watch him get out and walk.

  I know the Springer king well enough to see he’s not pleased with me. He hops down the street to the gallows as his subjects croak their approval.

  “Victor,” I say, “take us home.”

  The Birthday Children march home.

  Three five-legged machines, yellow and brown, ridden by teenagers in dirty black coveralls. Six snake-wolves—massive, tawny predators ridden by humans and Springers clothed only in strips of fabric that help them fade into the foliage. On foot, some two dozen rifle-carrying Springers, also wearing jungle rags. Finally, guarding our rear, young humans wearing black coveralls and wrapped in vines, rifles slung over their shoulders. Some of them carry farm tools they use in battle. That strange tradition was born from our initial lack of weapons, yet has persisted long after we were able to arm everyone with spears and knives.

  Most of the Springers who fought with us stayed in Schechak. The ones still with us are mostly from D’souza’s units, but a few dozen of Barkah’s soldiers live inside Uchmal’s circular walls, side by side with humans.

  In total, our city houses about two hundred Springers. Most are civilians, teenage purples and young reds, studying math, science, medicine and engineering. We also have a handful of purple-blue adults as well as a few pure-blue elderly, who teach us about native plants and animals, the seasons and how to survive them, the places that are rich in metals and minerals, Springer culture and history…all the knowledge of Omeyocan passed down from generation to generation over the centuries.