D'Arc

by Robert Repino

  “You’re making it worse,” Nathan Finch said.

  The pincers cut deep into the muscle and bone, each layer more agonizing than the last.

  “Don’t make me get the cattle prod.”

  The tail broke free with a great shredding sound, like sharks pulling their prey apart. Taalik plummeted to the deck, landing hard on his shell. Blood drained from the wound. Rolling onto his legs, Taalik clamped his tail to slow the bleeding. He rose to his feet. Above him, the cable spun with the severed tip still attached.

  “I am Taalik of Cold Trench.”

  Nathan Finch broke into a run. The movement of the human body was so strange to Taalik. These primates shifted their weight forward, almost falling over, only to catch themselves with each step.

  Taalik loped after the man, crippled by the gravity weighing on him. Nathan Finch entered a portal at the base of the tower. Taalik lowered his head to get through the opening.

  He followed the boot steps down a flight of stairs. On the third level, Taalik stopped dead when he smelled something familiar. It was impossible, in this stale, greasy place, and yet he could detect the oily redolence of his people emanating from an open portal. While the human retreated into the depths of the ship, Taalik inhaled the scent again. Unmistakable. He had to find out.

  Taalik followed the odor to a large, open room. Like every other chamber, the walls and floors were fashioned from the same gray metal. A few pillars supported the ceiling. Here, rows of enormous transparent tubes lined the walls, each filled with a yellowish liquid. A shadowy object floated inside of each one. Taalik made out the shape of a fish, floating dead in the cylinder. Not wanting to believe what he saw, he visited the other tubes to discover a different fish inside each one, some long and slender, others bulkier, with large heads and bulging eyes. One of the tubes contained a creature that was practically asymmetrical, with a wide face and mouth, and an enormous fin on the right side. In the next one, he found a thin fish, its jaw locked open in a perpetual scream. It was one of his people, one of his children, a scout he had sent on patrol. Two ragged holes punctured the fish’s body, one near the mouth, the other in the ribs. Both wounds must have come from that ghastly hook the humans used.

  Trembling, Taalik staggered to the end of the row. In the last tube, he saw a creature from his dreams, a crablike monster—very similar to the Spikes. It could live on land, using strands of silk from its abdomen to catch prey. A distant cousin of his, another worthy soldier in the Queen’s army.

  Taalik swore he could hear a voice coming from inside. He placed his claw on the glass. He expected the massive eyeball to focus on him, to recognize one of its own kind. And then, Taalik pitched backward, facing the drab ceiling. The ceiling became like the night sky, pocked with stars. The stars became constellations that streaked by as he traveled through space, toward a blue planet. He penetrated the atmosphere of this world, puncturing the clouds, flying over the sea and the sand and the rocks. A herd of beasts with fur and horns stampeded across an open plain. A family of monkeys with flat faces and long arms huddled in a jungle. A six-legged creature perched in the center of her nest, protecting her eggs as they readied to hatch. All life on this planet was connected. It circled around him. And only those deemed worthy could hear his voice, and the voice of the Queen.

  A blast ripped through the room. The cylinder burst open, its prisoner spilling out. Taalik broke free of the dream. Another loud bang echoed throughout the chamber. The human was somewhere near, using one of the terrible weapons that his race had perfected. Taalik made it to the stairway when another shot rang out. His armored shoulder went numb, the claw falling limp. Blood gushed from an open hole at the base of his neck. The light from the open doorway spun around and around. He tried to breathe, but the thin air did him no good.

  Taalik crawled through the door. His tentacles failed him. He dragged them along, leaving a slimy trail across the deck. Under the withering sun, Taalik pulled himself to the edge and rolled off. When he splashed down, the salt water rushed into the wounds, filling his body with an almost unbearable pain, like pebbles running through his bloodstream. Still, the burning meant that he was alive. All that mattered was staying alive.

  Having sensed the blood of the First of Us, the scouts rushed to him. One of them towed him along, while the other licked his wounds, frantically trying to stanch the bleeding. The last thing Taalik remembered before blacking out was the giant eyeball of the Shoot who repaired his injury, virtually identical to the eyes he saw on the ship, the eyes that he swore stared back at him, asking him why some got to live while others had to die.

  Taalik woke to the smell of the entire convoy surrounding him.

  First of Us, you must wake, one of the scouts said.

  Taalik rested on his side. The bleeding from his wounds had stopped, but his claw remained in its crippled position, curled into his stomach. A clump of mud sealed the severed tail, while the sensation of a phantom limb squirmed and wriggled. Above, the floating island cast a shadow over everything.

  First of Us, the mates call to you.

  The scout referred to Orak. The other mates would have let him rest. She would not.

  I will go to my mates, Taalik said.

  He ascended from the pit to find his people, all of them, hovering in rows, arranged by class. Orak asked them to do this whenever she needed a head count. Taalik followed her scent until he spotted her, surrounded by the other mates. When he reached her, the rest of the harem instinctively formed a protective wall around them.

  Why did you bring our people here? he said.

  I did not. Our enemies drove us here. While you were out exploring.

  Taalik waited. He needed to let her speak. She had been waiting a while to do so.

  They attacked as soon as you left, she said. Some of your children were left behind.

  Gather the strongest, he told her. We must sink that floating island.

  Her mouth opened as she considered what to say next.

  Speak if you must, he said. But be quick.

  Our enemy pursues us, my Egg. We do not have time for—

  That is our enemy, Taalik said, pointing his claw at the void hovering on the surface.

  If you had only been there when they attacked. If you had only smelled the blood.

  Taalik swam closer to her, until their outstretched tentacles formed a barrier around them. The movement pinched a nerve in his shoulder, sending a stabbing sensation into his wound. My Prime. You will do this.

  Orak gazed at the ship. The Queen revealed this to you?

  No. I saw it for myself.

  When will all this stop? When will the Queen be done with you?

  I do not know.

  Orak called out to the soldiers. They circled her, each caste forming a new ring, a vortex made of scales and claws and teeth. She shot upward, soaring toward the ship. The convoy followed in her wake, a massive tower rising toward the hull of the carrier.

  Taalik decided to join them, even though he was too weak to help. The hull widened until it blotted out the light. The warriors collided with the metal, rocking the ship, making the waves break in either direction. Taalik was pinned against the hull, his healthy claw and his four tentacles adding to the strength of the warriors. The structure tilted so far that the deck hit the waves in a great burst. The flying metal fishes crashed into the sea, toppling from the runway and corkscrewing to the ocean floor. As the ship descended, a roaring current sucked a few of the Sarcops into its wake, but they managed to swim away. The carrier collided with the seabed, screeching and grinding before coming to rest.

  An incessant, shrill clicking sound cut through the noise. It was Orak, calling the Sarcops to follow her to the north. The rage of the past few minutes evaporated as the convoy regrouped. Orak took her place at the front, her tail and tentacles waving behind her.

  When darkness fe
ll, and the Sarcops came to rest in a trench, the mates chose a spot for Taalik to couple with Zeela, his eighth. The act of mating proved painful for him. The movement stretched his unhealed wounds, causing some blood to leak out. Zeela pretended not to notice, and soon their fluids overwhelmed everything else. When they finished, Taalik sank to the ocean floor.

  Soon after she left, Taalik got up and swam through the community. He passed the moveable nursery, where the eggs sat fastened to the ground, made indistinguishable from the surrounding stones. He moved through a group of adolescent Redmouths, wrestling and tumbling about. At the perimeter, the Juggernauts patrolled the expanse, ready to sound the alarm if any intruders arrived. Orak swam among them. Though she must have smelled Taalik, she did not turn to face him until he was right behind her. When she did, Taalik swirled his tentacles around her. She waited a second before reciprocating.

  Tell me what happened on the floating island, she said.

  He described the carrier and its captain, the last man on earth. He spoke in a language I heard in my dreams, Taalik said. And I spoke back.

  Another sign. Another power bestowed upon you.

  She stopped waving her tail when he told her about the torture chamber.

  Everything the Queen told me about the humans is true, he said.

  Why would the humans keep people captive like that?

  They believe they are above everything else, not a part of it. Do you see now that these fish chasing us are pawns? The humans drove them mad, hunting them, destroying their waters.

  An icy current passed between them. Orak flapped her tentacles to stay in place.

  The Queen sees all, he said. And this time, she allowed me to see through her eyes.

  A vision?

  She had little tolerance for evasive answers and metaphor. And still he had to try.

  I saw all life. All the lives that have ever been lived. I could see them. I was them. Everything is connected. Through the Queen. And now through me. Through us. Our enemy does not understand this. We are the only ones who can stop them.

  And the Queen promises victory? And then peace?

  She promises neither. Only the hope of victory. The possibility of a new world.

  When she did not respond, he touched one of her tentacles with his. The two appendages braided around one another, creating warmth in the icy water.

  What do we do? she asked.

  We keep going north. We survive. Until the Queen calls on us.

  When will that be?

  Very soon.

  Too soon, he thought.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Watchers

  At night, the refugees of Lodge City gathered around the altar and sang songs of mourning for their dead. A beaver named Hildy served as the priestess, placing one hand on the altar, and lifting the other to the clouds. Fires burned in the four corners of the camp. The beavers swayed to the music. Castor placed his arm around his son, while Nikaya sat on a tree stump beside them, her withered hands resting in her lap. Soon, the smoke overwhelmed the odors of the camp—the scent hills, the barbecue pits, the washing buckets. All of them forgotten for now.

  The humming started again. Falkirk could feel it vibrating in his chest. Hildy squeezed her raised hand into a fist as the singers reached the chorus once more.

  We will meet again

  In the darkness

  Where you and I

  Will be the only light.

  And by our light

  We call everyone home

  Where the water flows

  And the dirt knows your name.

  It went on like that, all about the cozy lodges where the rodents would always find a home. The clerics in Hosanna did not approve of the old songs, but Falkirk would not dare point this out, not when the beavers wept as they sang.

  On the long walk from Mort(e)’s house to the camp, Castor volunteered to be the one to tell Nikaya the news. He said little else after that. Falkirk couldn’t blame him. Most of Castor’s family was trapped in the web, awaiting their fate. His son witnessed some of the horror. Castor tried to distract the child in the hope that this business with the spider would pass, and things would return to normal. It reminded Falkirk of the time his two pups approached him one evening after dinner, while he was building his model airplanes on the front porch. He could tell that the twins wanted to ask him something, but were afraid. The older one, Amelia, went first, with Yeager, the baby, partially hidden behind her.

  “What is it, puppy?” Falkirk asked.

  “Papa, will you die one day?”

  Falkirk told her that everyone dies. “Even you and Mama?” He said yes, though it would not be for a long time. “Even us? Will we die?” Falkirk pulled them in close. “Yes,” he said. “That’s why we need to appreciate each day we have together. Every day is special.” That night, when Falkirk and Sierra spooned together in their room, he told her what had happened. When she started to cry, he asked her what was wrong. “Nothing,” she said. “You did good.”

  Falkirk would see his family again, but not before he finished his work here on Earth. Not before God put him through these many trials, burnishing him into a new creation.

  The Lodgers reluctantly agreed to try his plan of sneaking into the web through the river valley, even though the last beaver to try it got snatched up. But what choice did they have? Some of the hostages had been trapped in the web for over a week. It was possible that the spider’s venom kept the victims alive, nourishing them as they waited for Gulaga to finish the job. Perhaps the victims remained in some dream state the whole time, believing right until the very end that they were relaxing in a warm lodge, smoking a pipe and singing songs with their loved ones.

  A horn blew, cutting through the music until the singing stopped. Heads turned toward the echo, which sounded from beyond the treeline. A second horn blast followed. A young beaver wearing a human army helmet stumbled into the camp, out of breath. “Spiders!” she screamed. “Spiders! Spiders! Spiders!”

  The crowd rippled away from the lookout beaver, who bent over to catch her breath.

  This Gulaga was smart. Rather than risk another attack, she would send her children to wipe out the remaining troublemakers. Perhaps she even sniffed out Falkirk’s plan. He pictured the monster looming behind Amelia and Yeager as they tearfully asked him about death. Will we die? Will Mama die?

  “Watchers!” Castor screamed above the noise. “Watchers, with me!”

  The Watchers consisted of a handful of beavers with little to no fighting experience. Their weapons included a few rifles, a pitchfork, an ax, a bow and arrow, and some assorted spears and machetes. Castor ordered them to take a position at the entrance of the camp. With this primitive arsenal, the Watchers would hold off the enemy while the families evacuated.

  Hildy told the others to take what they could carry from the lodges. “We’re moving now!” she said. “If you have to look for it, then leave it!” Falkirk spotted Nikaya in the madness. Two young beavers tried to lead her away, each taking an arm. Some other adult must have already taken Booker to safety. Nikaya probably wanted to say one last thing to her son before departing, but Castor made a show of ignoring her. A leader was not supposed to check with mommy while ordering people to their deaths.

  On command, the Watchers stacked tree logs in a crisscross formation. Falkirk joined in. He managed to carry a tree trunk all by himself and then drop it into place. The barrier would buy some time, but accomplish little else. Still, they held the high ground. The spiders would have to pass through here if they wanted to capture the fleeing civilians.

  The Watchers took their places around the barricade. Falkirk took stock of the best soldiers that Lodge City could produce. The two guards stood ready with their pikes. An elderly beaver readied a bow and arrow. Several of the shafts were wrapped in cloth, which he dipped into a bucket of t
ar. Falkirk pulled the pistol from his holster. Beside him, a Watcher who called himself Fram readied his rifle. This beaver was one of the few to actually fight in the war, and so the Watchers let him use one of Mort(e)’s weapons. A few feet away, Castor pulled his glasses over his eyes and peered into the scope of his new Remington.

  Everyone smelled it, an unfamiliar scent that carried with it mud, coarse hair, and the metallic smell of an exoskeleton. Giant insects traveling downwind. The beavers alerted one another by slapping their tails on the ground.

  The trees shook, some so violently that their newly grown leaves fell off. Rifles aimed into the pitch. Falkirk wanted to tell these beavers to put out the torches so their vision could adjust to the dark, but it was too late. The arachnids were upon them.

  Among the trees, here and there, insect feet clawed the dirt. Something scraped against the bark of a tree. Twigs snapped. Gravel shifted. They’re staring us down, Falkirk thought. They’re smart. They want us to suffer first. The priests in Hosanna were right—something evil lingered after the war, and it would punish everyone, animal and human alike.

  Castor pointed to the bowman, who lit his arrow on fire and launched it into the woods. He sent two more shots, the arrows slicing across the black sky and sticking into a tree trunk in a hail of sparks. Once his vision adjusted, Falkirk saw dozens of eyes, great orbs hovering, reflecting the flames. They’re huge. But not spiders—something else.

  “Praise the Goddesses,” someone said.

  A flare burst, maybe ten feet off the ground. In the unnatural light, Falkirk saw the hides of Alpha soldiers washed out in the brightness. A dog mounted on one of the ants held the flare, the flame changing from white to red. It was Sheba, dressed in full battle gear, with a submachine gun, bandoliers across her chest, a sword on her back. The dog held the fire at an angle to obscure her face, creating a void where her eyes, snout, and mouth should have been.