by Scott Sigler
She’s anxious, upset, apologizing for something that I already know, something that isn’t her fault.
“No one is mad at you,” I say softly. “Just tell me what these are.”
She takes a deep breath, continues.
“There is a hatch at the base of the telescope. We’ve been trying for months to get it open, but the access panel is complicated. The telescope is a delicate instrument—you can’t just bang on it with hammers, you know.”
My patience is running out. “We know. Go on.”
Zubiri does. “Today, Okereke finally got that hatch open. He did it by entering a pattern sequence he’s been working on. He’s good with patterns, better than you’d expect from a circle.”
Spingate doesn’t seem to notice Zubiri’s inadvertent insult. I notice it, of course, but for once I don’t care—I want to know what this is all about.
“I crawled inside the hatch,” Zubiri says. “I thought I would be looking up at a lens of some kind, because I knew I was in the biggest, longest part of the telescope. But there isn’t a lens. The end of the telescope…it’s open. Like the barrel of a gun. And the interior of the barrel isn’t round, it’s six-sided. Hexagonal. A barrel just a little bit wider”—she nods toward the golden objects—“than one of those.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Zubiri, are you telling me these pencil-shaped things are some kind of giant bullets?”
She nods. She’s shivering. She’s that scared.
“Inside the hatch door, I saw some numbers. I found Opkick. She’s been trying to understand the Grownups’ cataloging system, why they number doors the way they do, why some rooms are hidden, that kind of thing. She told me the numbers from inside the hatch probably coordinated with the tenth layer, northwest corner. Okereke and I were very excited, so we started searching. That’s why we missed your party—I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s fine,” I say. Like I give a damn about the party right now.
“Okereke and I searched the halls,” she says. “We found that hidden panel. He entered the same sequence there that he used to get the hatch open, and here we are.”
Objects that might be bullets…bullets bigger than my whole body.
I step closer to the rack, stand in front of the giant pencil piece that fills the second space from the left. I notice something below the object, on the rack itself. A small plate with engraved letters. It reminds me of the plaque that decorated the foot of my birth-coffin, the one that told me my name. But this small plaque doesn’t show a single letter, a period, then a name—it shows a name, then a number.
“Goff,” I say, letting my fingertip trace the hard edges of the engraved letters. “And the number 2.”
I look at the plaque under the first space, the empty one. It reads Goff 1.
The three to my right read Goff 3, Goff 4 and Goff 5.
And then it hits me. I think of the weapon I carry with me almost everywhere, our symbol of power and leadership.
It hits Spingate, too.
“Goffspear,” she says. “It’s not one word. It’s two. Goff…and spear.”
Zubiri nods.
“The telescope isn’t just for seeing,” she says. “It’s for targeting. I think the telescope is a weapons system designed to fire these hexagonal objects. I think we’ve been wrong about the Observatory all along. It’s not some cultural center or temple—I think this place was built to destroy spaceships.”
My house. My favorite place.
Uchmal is large enough to house three million people. Considering that there are only 275 of us, plus around 200 Springers, there isn’t much competition when it comes to picking out a home.
Bishop wanted to live in the Observatory. It’s “safe,” he likes to say. Maybe so, but that place has no windows—I’ve spent enough of my life locked up in confined places. And I need to be away from the Observatory, at least some of the time. I accept my role as leader, but that doesn’t mean the constant demands don’t wear me down.
I chose the top floor of a small, four-layer ziggurat. It faces the wide road of Yong Boulevard. We’re close enough to the Observatory that I can run there in minutes, or be there in seconds if I’m on spiderback.
My house’s outside walls are stone panels that swing out easily on hidden hinges. I leave all four sides open most of the time, even when it’s cold. I hate feeling enclosed. I want to see, I need to breathe.
I’ve filled the place with handmade Springer furniture, carvings, rugs, tapestries and brightly colored paintings. I got all of it in exchange for a backpack full of grain bars. Springers can’t seem to get enough of those tasty treats. I think of the party—I’ll have to get some paintings from Crystal and Axel in here next.
My house is just tall enough that I can see past Uchmal’s circular walls. Far to the west, the endless jungle ruins of Omeyocan are a constant reminder of both the destruction my progenitors caused and this planet’s untamed beauty. To the north and south, the long expanse of buildings and ziggurats. To the east is the Observatory, massive and ever present. Halfway between it and us is Visca’s Spire, a tall black obelisk that stretches toward the sky. We named it after the first casualty in our conflict with the Springers. The Spire has elevators, but they don’t work. Sometimes people will take the twenty flights of stairs to the top just for the view.
My favorite couch faces to the west. During the rare times Bishop and I are both home, we often sit there, together. Even if it’s raining out, we can cuddle up, stay dry, and just stare out at the glory of Omeyocan.
Which is what we are doing right now. His arm is around me. My head is on his chest. We watch the red sun setting over the yellow jungle. We haven’t been alone together in ten days. The last of my strength went into—finally—taking a hot shower. We both want something more than a cuddle, but neither of us has the energy to do anything about it.
So the couch it is. And honestly? I couldn’t be happier. Clean hair, clean skin, clean coveralls, and I feel like a different person. Right now I’m not “the leader.” I’m not “Yalani.” I’m just a girl listening to a boy’s beating heart.
“I missed you,” Bishop says. “And I’m so pooped.”
“Me too. To both.”
Far off in the jungle, animals chirp and hoot and howl. At this distance, the sounds merge into a soft song. If I wasn’t soaking up every last second with Bishop, filing it away in case this violent place takes him away from me, I would have nodded off long ago.
He turns his head, kisses my hair.
“That’s amazing news about the Goff Spear,” he says. “Does Zubiri think she can get it to work?”
“She says she needs a few days. She’s afraid to try, though. The Goff Spear rounds are nuclear weapons. If something goes wrong, she’s worried they might destroy the Observatory.”
We stare up at the stars. Gaston says one of the twinkling lights out there is the Basilisk, but I don’t know which one.
Even though my body is finally relaxing, I can’t make my mind do the same. It is full of swirling puzzle pieces: the way people are getting mad at each other, the Belligerent attacks, Barkah’s change in behavior, aliens in orbit, spaceship-killing bullets…somehow these things connect. I hope I figure out how everything fits together before it’s too late.
“Em, what do you want?”
The question strikes me as odd.
“Right now, just this,” I say. “Just to be with you.”
“That’s not what I mean. All the work we’re doing. I know it will go on for our lifetimes, but you work harder than anyone else. Do you always want to be the leader?”
“No,” I say, instantly. “I do it because it has to be done. I want to build up a stable society, then I want to let someone else take over. I just want to be a normal person.”
Bishop laughs. “I don’t think you’re capable of that.”
“Jerk.”
He laughs again, pets my hair.
“You’re
so…driven,” he says. “When you stop being leader, all that energy has to go somewhere. What do you want to do then?”
I realize I’ve never really thought about that. And yet, seeing those circles at the party, making art, creating things that would have never existed without their specific mind, their specific vision…
Something pops into my head.
“I think I want to be a writer.”
“You mean make up stories?”
I close my eyes, sink a little deeper into him.
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll write about real things. Like the history of our people. It’s so hard on us, not knowing our past. If I write, maybe Kevin and other children can know what we went through.”
He pauses for a moment. I feel him nod.
“That’s beautiful,” he says. “I hope you can do that.”
I love the sound of his voice. There’s a burr in it, a huskiness that is just male. Usually gender doesn’t matter to me. I could give a damn what kind of parts you have, as long as you can do your job. But that’s when I am working. In the precious few minutes when I am not, I love that Bishop is everything a man should be.
He clears his throat in the way he does when he’s trying to find the right words. My heart sinks—I know what he’s going to say before he says it, and it’s not something I want to talk about, not tonight.
“You defeated the Belligerents,” he says. “You promised me that once they were beaten, we could talk about starting a family.”
I’m already so tired, and he somehow finds a way to make me more so.
“We don’t know if they’re gone for good.”
“You’re stalling again,” he says. “If you don’t want a family with me, Em, why don’t you just say so.”
Because I’m afraid that if I say that, you won’t want to be with me anymore.
“Please, Bishop—there’s an alien ship coming. Can we talk about this some other time?”
He backs off. He always does. He wants children. I think it’s too early for that. And, to be honest, I’m not even sure I want children. At all.
“You haven’t told me much about the battle,” he says, changing the subject. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I think of the Springer being torn apart by my bracelet beam.
“It was hard being out there for so long,” I say. “I was always so wet. And cold.”
I feel him stir.
“Did Victor try and keep you warm?”
Again, that name said with a hint of anger, a touch of disgust.
“What do you mean did he try to keep me warm? We all froze our asses off out there. Why would he…”
I suddenly feel so stupid. I sit up.
“You think there’s something going on between Victor and me?”
Bishop doesn’t answer. I can feel the tension in his body.
“There’s not,” I say. “Victor is a good soldier. He’s reliable. But he’s just a boy—you’re my man.”
That seems to relax him somewhat.
“Well, it might be good to tell Victor the same thing.”
“What are you talking about? I said I don’t like him that way.”
“No, but he likes you that way.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“He has a crush on you, Em. Everyone sees it but you.”
I think about the things Victor said to me. And how he doesn’t seem interested in Zubiri anymore. Could Bishop be right? The very thought embarrasses me.
“Well, I’m not interested in him.”
“Even though you said he was amazing?”
“He fought well, all right? Stop reading into it.”
Maybe this is residue from his budding rivalry with the boy. Or…maybe the “rivalry” isn’t about who is a better warrior—maybe it’s about me.
I put my head back on Bishop’s chest.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I say.
I feel him nod.
“Fair enough,” he says. “Something else I want to discuss, anyway. For the next battle, you need to let me fight. I was made for war, Em. You’re made for greater things.”
I don’t mention what I was actually “made” for. I’m a circle. I was made to be a slave.
Bishop is just poking me now, bringing up things we’ve already talked about. Many times. Why can’t he just relax with me?
“I needed you here so everyone could see you, watch you manage things while I’m gone,” I say. “We have to think about our long-term survival as a people. If anything happens to me, you—”
“Nothing is going to happen to you.”
I hear his heartbeat quicken. In combat, he stays remarkably calm and efficient. Alone with me, though, is the only time he lets his guard down, lets his emotions show.
“I know you feel that way,” I say. “But Omeyocan is a place of death. Since we landed, we’ve lost twenty-one people.”
I let that number sink in. It’s a reminder to him that death could take any of us, at any time.
And probably will.
“If I die, you have to lead,” I say. “Or if you don’t want to lead, help the person that does. This isn’t about me or you—it’s about our people. Barkah needs to see me out there, in the battles, taking risks. He has to know I’m not like his father, that I won’t sit back and let others fight for me.”
Maybe that’s the real reason behind my decision to lead our troops into battle. Barkah has thousands of subjects. Regardless of our weapons and technology, I know full well that if he thinks we’re weak, he might be able to wipe us out with numbers alone.
Bishop hates that he can’t fight. Hates it. But like all of us, he does what must be done.
We stare out into the jungle for a long while before he speaks again.
“I have to tell you something. When you were gone, I had trouble sleeping.”
“Awwww, you missed me that much?”
“More than you could ever know, but it wasn’t that. I…if I tell you this, will you promise not to tell anyone else?”
That gets my attention. If there’s one thing that defines Ramses Bishop, it’s that he doesn’t care what anyone thinks.
“Of course,” I say. “Anything you tell me in confidence stays with me, forever.”
He hesitates. I wait. When it comes to actions, Bishop moves without hesitation, with speed that is simply shocking. When it comes to strategy—or to emotions—it takes him a little longer to know his mind.
“The first few nights you were gone, I slept fine,” he says. “But then something changed. I started having nightmares.”
We’re not together every night, but when we are, he sleeps like the dead. I’ve never known him to have a nightmare.
Spingate never had them, either.
His voice is a thin whisper. “I was scared, but not because of something else. I was scared of me, because I hurt someone.”
A shiver ripples across my skin. Just like the shiver I felt when I saw Spingate and Gaston yelling at each other. I know Bishop better than I know myself. I love him, and he is good to me, but I can never, ever forget how dangerous he can be.
I sit up again, stare at him. “Who did you hurt?”
He looks down. He won’t meet my eyes.
“Victor,” he says. “I…I killed him.”
“What, like an accident? Or a training duel?”
Bishop makes us do combat training every day. We often use real weapons. Sometimes, people get hurt, but experiencing danger is a necessary part of being able to fight efficiently when your life is on the line. Duels are a huge part of that training—one-on-one battles with blunted spears or other weapons.
He still won’t look at me.
“Not a duel,” he says. “I came up from behind him. I stalked him. I murdered him.”
For the briefest moment, I feel an overpowering urge to stand and run. Aside from the snake-wolves, Bishop is the deadliest creature on this planet. Then the urge passes, and I feel ridiculous for being
afraid of him.
“It was just a dream,” I say.
He nods.
“But it felt so real. I woke up in the middle of it, right after I ran him through. I was screaming. Not from fear, Em…I was screaming with joy.”
My people are getting more violent. My people are having nightmares. A sense of dread takes root in my chest. It lies there, twitching, wiggling.
I reach out, caress his cheek.
“It was just a dream,” I say again.
But was it?
I nuzzle into him. I feel his hand on my head, stroking my long black hair. I lose myself in that sensation. As big and powerful as Bishop is, this dealer of death has a touch so tender it makes me melt.
I swear, it makes me want to purr.
Like O’Malley’s kitten.
The kitten he had to strangle.
My special, perfect moment evaporates.
They made O’Malley’s progenitor kill his own kitten, just to prove something that didn’t need to be proved. Down here we all work so closely together toward our common goal that sometimes I forget just how awful our species can be.
Bishop’s regular breathing tells me he’s fallen asleep. Lying on the couch, in the steady hum of my planet, I’m able to let go of disturbing thoughts. I breathe in deeply through my nose. I smell Bishop. I smell the jungle.
My fear slips away, and sleep takes me.
Rain hammers so hard the jungle leaves moan in pain.
Omeyocan’s twin moons glare down.
The rain transforms the yellow jungle to red. It’s not water that pours from the sky—it’s blood.
“Look what you’ve done, Em.”
That voice.
J. Yong.
He’s curled up in a ball on the floor of a Xolotl hallway, his blood mixing with the endless gray dust to make crimson slush. Red stains his white shirt where I stabbed him in the belly. He rolls from side to side, but his eyes never leave mine.
“Look what you’ve done,” he says.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”