by Scott Sigler
I scramble to my knees. Maria and Fenrir are next to us; she’s firing her rifle, Fenrir is stuffing the Wasp into his mouth, chomping madly with his thick piranha teeth. Two more mounted hurukans rush out of the jungle. Pincers snap. Riders fire. Blood flies. The Wasps fight back, but Maria’s huge beasts are too fast, too vicious—in moments, the enemy breaks and runs, scattering in all directions. Around us, a dozen Wasps lie dead, as do one of the hurukans and its Springer rider.
Maria and Fenrir stay beside our spider. The last hurukan, ridden by a howling Nedelka Holub, gives chase.
A tree falls, broken down by a tank that rolls over the stump and rumbles along the trunk, smashing flat the rattling branches and shaking leaves. Two tanks follow behind, a single-file column of destruction.
Borjigin’s giant moves to attack.
The lead tank’s cannon belches out a roaring cone of flame.
The shell detonates in the metal giant’s right shoulder. The arm with the huge scoop comes free with a ringing snap, falls, smashes into the jungle floor.
I think everyone inside the giant must be dead, but the machine strides toward the tank.
Smoke billowing from the severed arm, the metal giant’s massive pincer-hand reaches out, scoops up the lead tank. I watch, stunned to stillness, as the giant lifts the first tank high and smashes it down on the second.
There is the briefest pause, then both tanks erupt in a cloud of flame that engulfs the surrounding trees and sets them ablaze.
The flames also splash against the giant. Borjigin is driving. He has a crew of three. The fire is already spreading through the massive machine. If I don’t do something, the four of them will be burned alive.
“Maria!” I meet her eyes, then point to the ladder that runs up the giant’s spine to its hodgepodge head. “Can Fenrir climb up there?”
She leans back, holding the reins, looks up only for a moment before answering me.
“Let’s find out.” She whips the reins against the beast’s back. “Fenrir, climb!”
The hurukan rushes at the giant and leaps, powerful legs launching the heavy beast high into the air. The fading sunlight piercing the jungle canopy plays against tawny fur, gleams off the pinkish blood marking a dozen small wounds.
Fenrir’s front legs reach out—claws clutch the metal ladder, cling tight even as the snake neck wraps firmly around a broken bit of pipe jutting from the giant’s back. Rear legs scramble against metal until they, too, lock on.
“God of Blood,” Victor says, breathless. “Look at that.”
Maria screams at her mount, urging it higher. One reaching claw after another, Fenrir climbs the burning giant like it is scaling a shaking, flaming tree.
Bawden hops up from the deck, slams the hatch shut behind her.
“We’re back in business!”
I point my spear at Borjigin’s great machine. “Get us there, now!”
Bawden steers our lurching, wounded Number 05 toward the giant.
The jungle erupts anew as a wave of routed Wasp soldiers rushes past, ignoring us as they flee for their lives. A horde of Springers descends upon them, tearing through the underbrush, dropping down from trees, even swinging in on vines. Guns and muskets fire briefly, then fighting shifts to hand-to-hand. A Wasp draws a long sword that crackles with energy and cleaves an attacking Springer in two. Both halves of the body are still twitching as three more Springers rush in and drag the Wasp down.
Hatchets and axes flash—as good as the color-shifting armor is, it can’t stand up to the brutal savagery of these infuriated warriors.
I have never seen such destruction. Two species are fighting for the future of their kind. No one surrenders. No one offers respect to the wounded. There are no deals here, no yielding, only fighting until one side or the other is dead.
Despite the flames licking up the light blue giant, Borjigin moves his monster toward the final tank.
The tank’s cannon roars. The shell detonates in the giant’s left hip, a billowing explosion of orange flame and black smoke that rips the joint to pieces, sends forth a hail of metal shards that cut down vines, embed in tree trunks, punch through Springers and Wasps alike.
The metal giant sways to the left.
Maria’s hurukan loses its grip—clawed feet slip free. High above the forest floor, the big beast swings out, held in place only by the snake neck that is stretched taut to the point of breaking. Maria grips tight to her saddle as the furred body slams into branches, snapping arm-thick wood like kindling. I wait for the beast and my friend both to spin through the jungle to their death….somehow Fenrir hangs on.
Borjigin’s giant stumbles, almost falls, but recovers—the machine stands straight.
Maria’s mount swings back onto the ladder. Claws grip and hold.
Again, the hurukan scrambles higher.
A rectangular chunk of metal erupts from the back of the giant’s head, spins through the air to vanish in the jungle. Borjigin climbs out, his coveralls dotted with sticky grease that burns with deep-orange flames. Only one kid, a girl, climbs out after him. They grip handholds, cling tight.
Fenrir reaches them. The long neck coils around the girl, lifts her free. Maria pulls the burning Borjigin onto the saddle behind her.
Fenrir scrambles down the ladder. Long tongues of flame shoot from the giant, making blue paint bubble, singeing Fenrir’s bloody fur.
The tank is so close to the giant the long cannon barrel angles up at forty-five degrees. This time, the round erupts dead center in the machine’s chest. The billowing fireball forces the hurukan to leap out into the air.
Fenrir slams into the ground—I hear bones break on impact.
The burning wreck of Borjigin’s giant tips backward, then topples forward like a falling tree, crashes down on the tank in a whuffing storm of flame.
Something inside the smashed tank explodes, sends streamers of flame so high into the air they arc over the jungle canopy. There is no way the last two crew members of Borjigin’s giant could have survived that.
I snatch up my spear. Victor and I are out of the spider, sprinting to our friends. Maria rolls on the ground, holding a shoulder that hangs at a strange angle. Borjigin’s leg flops sickeningly. The girl—I recognize her, Sharyl Bohner—is half-trapped beneath Fenrir’s bulk. The hurukan kicks, twitches and roars. With every lurch, Sharyl screams in agony.
The beast’s death throes are going to kill the girl; I have to finish him.
Fenrir’s snake neck finally lies limp. I raise my bracelet to the three black eyes that run down the side of his head and flick my fingers forward—nothing happens.
A shard of metal sticks out of my bracelet’s white stone: a piece of shrapnel. Had it hit an inch higher or lower, it would have torn my arm apart.
Victor screams for me to kill the beast. He’s got Sharyl’s arms, is trying to pull her free.
I grab my spear with both hands. I time Fenrir’s lurching, then thrust. The blade slides through an eye and into the head. Fenrir stiffens, spasms…falls still.
Bawden slides to a stop next to Victor. Victor’s face screws tight with effort as he lifts Fenrir just enough for Bawden to pull Sharyl from beneath the dead animal.
I yank my spear free, grab Maria and drag her toward the spider. Borjigin crawls toward it as well, arm over arm, a look of utter determination etched on his bloody face.
All around us, Springers howl in a victorious battle cry. They’ve killed the last of the Wasps in this area.
Corpses, everywhere. Smoke rising. Flames crawling up massive tree trunks, twisting through vines. I smell burned flesh and scorched wood.
I smell blood.
This is what the Grub wanted.
Only the strong survive.
We load our wounded into the spider. It’s a tight fit.
A thunderous blast, bigger than anything I’ve ever felt, showers us with dirt and broken splinters of wood. For a moment, I can’t hear, then the sound of roaring flames comes rushing
back. Someone grabs me, shakes me.
“Artillery,” Victor says. “The Wasps are shelling us!”
Another explosion to our left makes the ground tremble like an earthquake.
I hear Springers screaming.
The Wasp artillery. We got three tanks, but we didn’t get their cannons.
I hear the low sounds of Springer horns echoing across the jungle—three long blasts, all in a row.
The sun is setting: we did it.
“Bawden, get us home!”
Our spider jerks to life. Each halting step makes Maria and Borjigin cry out. We can’t help them now; they’ll have to bear the pain.
Victor shoves something against my chest—it’s a Wasp rifle, long and heavy and wicked. He points to a button under the thick barrel.
“That’s the trigger. When you press it, hold on tight, it’s got a hell of a kick. You guard our back—I have to dress Sharyl’s wounds or she’ll bleed out!”
Bawden pushes the shuddering spider as fast as it will go, a painful pace that hurts us all.
Another explosion, then another, and another. The air fills with flying dirt and a deadly hail of shrapnel.
Over those deafening roars, I hear a familiar rocket-growl coming from the north—Wasp troopships.
They’re bringing in their reserves.
The enemy is close behind.
The setting sun turns sparse clouds into long, ragged red slashes—today, even the sky bleeds.
My people are in full-on retreat, survivors all around us as we rush down the road from the abandoned Schechak toward Uchmal’s North Gate. Some of us are barely able to walk; some carry wounded comrades; some stop every few feet to turn and fire back into the jungle ruins. A few don’t bother to shoot, and I know why—their rifles are out of ammo, their bracelets are depleted of energy.
Just east of us, the one o’clock tower cannon fires volley after volley into the jungle, trying to take out our unseen pursuers.
Our lurching spider struggles through the tall metal doors. When Bawden finally brings us to a stop, leg joints blow in a burst of sparks. The machine’s belly clangs down onto the paving stones.
“No fixing that,” Bawden says. “Everyone out!”
Victor leaps to the ground. Bawden lowers Sharyl down to him.
I sling the Wasp rifle, grab my spear and scramble up onto the spider’s back.
Big Pig is parked just inside the wall, throaty engine idling. Dozens of wounded lie in its wide bed. A pair of circles sprint to us. Bawden gently lowers Borjigin to their reaching hands.
A block down the street, Springers bustle around five wooden trebuchets. They used these weapons against us in the Battle of the Crescent-Shaped Clearing, but today they’re loaded with barrels, not boulders. The launching arms—stripped down tree trunks—are cocked back, ready to fire.
No sign of Bishop or the people in his unit. He knew the plan. If he hasn’t made it back by now…
So many lives at stake. We can’t wait for him.
I face the one o’clock tower and wave both arms over my head, giving them the signal to abandon their position and head for the shuttle. The cannon fires one last burst, then falls quiet.
Victor carries Sharyl to Big Pig; people reach down from the bed, gently pull her in. The two circles load Borjigin in after her. Looks like he’s passed out from the pain.
I help Bawden lower Maria to the ground.
Bawden slides under her good shoulder. I slip under her bad, my left hand around her waist, my right holding my spear. I can feel the broken bones grinding inside her.
We move toward Big Pig, but by some unspoken connection, the three of us stop and look back at the spider.
So many fresh bullet holes in the armor I think the machine might be more air than metal. Two legs stand normally, bent at that familiar sharp angle. Two legs are twisted and warped. One is missing altogether.
“Goodbye, Number Five,” Bawden says, her voice hoarse from screaming, from smoke.
Maria nods. “And goodbye to you, Fenrir. You were a good boy.”
Tears cut trails through the grime on her face. I don’t know if she’s crying from physical pain, for her hurukan, for leaving Omeyocan, or for the squad member she lost. Probably all of the above.
We help Maria to the truck. Hands reach down to pull her up just as the air crackles with a round of rifle fire.
Victor shouts the alert: “Here they come!”
Bawden and I sprint for the gate. We slide to a stop, use the tall right-hand door for cover. I drop my spear and unsling the heavy Wasp rifle.
Victor and two circle-stars are at the left-hand door, firing rifles and bracelets.
A tick bursts from the jungle not even fifty meters away, twin guns blazing. It scrambles onto the road and scurries toward our gate. A dozen Wasp foot soldiers fan out behind it, led by a tall one with copper streaks on its shoulder armor.
Bullets spark off the paving stones at our feet, ping off the metal doors.
I aim at the tick, press the button. Recoil smashes the butt against my shoulder, a combination of punches so hard they make me stumble backward.
Our shots hit the armored tick, but they do nothing. It will be on us in seconds. I should have ordered the doors shut when I had the chance.
Then, behind the tick, the jungle erupts again as a spider tears into view. Kai Brown is driving…and Ramses Bishop mans the cannon. Behind the spider, a dozen circle-stars and a handful of Springers rush forward to fight.
Bishop’s face is a bestial snarl: mouth open, teeth exposed in a primitive roar I can hear even over the gunfire. His face is covered in a mixture of blood, sweat, ash and mud.
He fires the spider cannon. The blast hits the tick in the rear. I see a muffled explosion inside the armored shell, then the machine tumbles, hits the ground and rolls, limp legs flopping.
The copper-striped Wasp commander shouts a click-clack-screech of orders to turn and fight, but his troops are caught in the open with enemy in front and behind.
Victor rises up and screams: “Charge!”
He rushes forward armed with only a spear—his rifle is out of ammo, his bracelet drained of power. The two circle-stars with him charge as well, one shooting a rifle on the run, the other armed with nothing but a knife.
I fire the Wasp weapon to give them cover—one round hammers my shoulder, then it does nothing. Empty.
I drop it, grab up my spear and sprint out of the gate, Bawden at my side.
Bishop’s spider overruns the enemy. A pointed foot punches through a Wasp soldier, pinning the twitching alien to the dirt.
A burst of machine-gun fire rakes the spider cockpit. Bullets hit Kai Brown in the chest and face: he drops in a cloud of blood. The cannon sparks and starts to smoke—it’s ruined.
Some of the Wasps toss their guns aside and draw knives or swords; we’re not the only ones who have run out of ammo.
Bishop reaches back, yanks his red axe from its bracket. He roars and leaps from the cockpit, swinging the horrible weapon down—the axe-head drives through a Wasp helmet, splitting the skull within. The creature drops, as limp as if it had never been alive to begin with.
We reach the Wasps at the same time Bishop’s circle-stars and Springers do, engulfing the enemy from all sides. Spears and hatchets and axes clash with swords and knives, but the Wasps have no chance. They fall one by one until only the copper-striped leader remains, sword blazing with energy.
It swings at Victor, who angles his body away and jabs his spear through its thin knee. The Wasp tries to swing again, but Bawden leaps and kicks it in the chest, knocking it flat on its back.
Before it can rise, I drive my spear through its neck.
The brave warrior dies on the soil of a foreign planet, far from a home it probably never saw.
My people sprint to the gate. Bishop grabs my waist, tosses me up into his spider. I land, almost slip on Kai Brown’s blood. He lies face-up on the cockpit deck, as dead as the alien I just
killed.
Bawden and Bishop scramble up the rungs. She takes the driver controls.
Two Springers leap into the cockpit—it’s Barkah and Lahfah.
Are they evacuating with us?
The Springer king is badly cut, his blue blood mixing with the Wasp yellow that covers him head to toe.
“Hem,” he says, then collapses onto the bloody deck. Lahfah kneels by his side.
I can’t worry about them right now.
Bawden drives the spider through the gate: the huge doors start to swing shut behind us.
Victor is at the trebuchets with the Springers.
I wave my spear at him. “Light them up!”
With a heavy rattle of wood, the five trebuchets launch. The long tree trunks snap high into the air. Attached ropes yank taut, pulling harnesses that swing back, then up, then release their payloads—five barrels sail high over the wall, each trailing a thin line of black smoke.
We don’t see them hit, but we hear them: boom, boom-boom, boom-boom.
Through the closing gates, I see a wall of fire rise up to engulf the jungle. The flames flare higher than the tallest tree. The intense, instant heat makes thousands of vines writhe in a dying dance.
“Good gods,” Bawden says. “What was in those barrels?”
“Borjigin’s accelerants,” Bishop says. “Packed in with chemicals left over from Zubiri’s fuel conversion process.”
The chemical mix will burn hot enough to set everything around it ablaze, perhaps hot enough to turn the entire jungle into an inferno. Any Wasp foot soldiers—or ticks or tanks—caught in that instant slice of hell are already dying. Those that haven’t reached it yet have to either go around or wait for the fire to die down.
That buys us a little more time.
The gate doors slam shut. The people who closed it rush to Big Pig and climb into the bed. Victor and the trebuchet Springers are the last ones in.
Big Pig’s driver steers onto Latu Way and drives straight south, toward the Observatory.
Our spider falls in behind it.
Over the growl of Big Pig’s engine, I hear a new sound. A high-pitched whistle, growing louder and louder. In the truck’s bed, Victor screams at his fellow passengers.