Alone

  On Omeyocan he was king. Here, I am empress.

  I take orders from no one.

  Lahfah and Shumalk will also be part of the damage control team, along with two Cherished, two New People, and me.

  The two Cherished are halves who know Ximbal’s systems. They both lost their receptacles at the Battle of the Crescent-Shaped Clearing—Abrantes and Aeschelman. Their receptacles died because the Em part of me ordered Spingate to fire missiles at Borjigin’s giant. Now the older selves volunteer to die by my side.

  War makes strange bedfellows.

  The two New People are my “grandson” Marcus and a woman named Benga Basuki. She is a mother of three. She’s so committed to the lives of her children she’s willing to die for them. I think Marcus volunteered out of some sense of obligation rather than a genuine desire to sacrifice himself for the greater good; he is the leader of the New People, after all. I’d rather not have either of them, but the New People will need their heroes just as will the Birthday Children, the Springers and the Cherished.

  I made sure every group is represented. I can’t have future generations point to one group and say, You didn’t do your part. If we win, there will be a memorial to the heroes who undertook this mission—that memorial will show all of the Xolotl’s cultures.

  I don’t know a thing about the Ximbal’s systems. Neither do Marcus, Benga, Lahfah or Shumalk. We’ve quickly been taught how to use “weld wands,” how to use sealant to fix punctured pressure suits, how to patch holes, how to mend split cables and a handful of other simple tasks.

  I am ancient, so jaded I see even full lives as brief flickers of light that snuff out before they’ve truly begun to burn. Matilda watched thousands die, for her cause and simply from old age. Over and over and over again on the Xolotl’s journey, she saw children born, watched them grow, saw them wither, saw them die.

  Because of that, I feel little for the people who are going with me. We serve the greater good. It is the smallest member of our crew, though, that draws a pang of sadness. The purpose of this mission is to fire the Goff Spear—for that, Zubiri must be aboard. She is our expert. Borjigin designed the cobbled-together Goff cannon, but he’s too wounded to join us.

  The final member of our crew is a circle-cross Cherished: Francine Yilmaz. Like the Admiral, she has no desire to overwrite her younger self. Like Brewer, she wants her life to matter. That gives us a doctor on board to patch up minor wounds and get people back into the fight.

  Turned out Old Kalle’s hands shake constantly. She couldn’t work the Macana controls, so she’s out. Walezak broke down and cried during the refresher course. She can’t handle the pressure, so we can’t use her. Fortunately for us, Zoe Dibaba is ready and eager to fill Old Kalle’s seat.

  Our five fighter pilots: McWhite, Goldberg and Dibaba, people I’ve known for centuries, as well as Aramovsky and young Kalle, people I’ve known—in a strange way—my entire life.

  A few centuries ago, Chris McWhite and Matilda had an intimate relationship. It only lasted a few years, but we both enjoyed it and parted on good terms. Goldberg is a wonderful poker player. Dibaba was an ally of Brewer—I never liked her, but she’s ready to do her part, and for that I accept her as my ally.

  Young Kalle glares at me constantly. She doesn’t want to risk her life. I’m not giving her a choice. Lucky for her, Gaston thinks the fighter pilots have the best chance of returning alive.

  The Admiral will pilot the Ximbal. Noam Peura volunteered to be the copilot. He’s as scared as ever, his voice cracking on every word, but he’s going.

  Our last chance at survival: Eight Cherished. Two New People. Seven Birthday Children. Two Springers.

  And me.

  I am the only overwritten person. I suppose I am my own culture, a “Hybrid.” Yes, that name should work for my last three hours of life.

  I think of a quote I once heard: I will never be old. To me, old age is always fifteen years older than I am. Perhaps that quote worked for a 60-year-old looking at 75-year-olds—I wonder if it still applies when you turn 1,208?

  Ximbal’s crew and the fighter pilots gather beneath the shuttle wing for final instructions. I stand there, my helmet under my arm. I should give a rousing speech, but that was Em’s role. We either succeed or we die. If people need more motivation than that, I can’t help them.

  My spear. For the first time, I realize it’s still on Omeyocan. I’m not sure where I lost it. It has been with me almost constantly for a year, and I didn’t even realize it was gone. I suppose it served its purpose—we no longer need a symbol of leadership. The role is mine until I choose to give it up.

  The Admiral quickly reviews the plan. When he tells us to get to our positions, most do.

  Aramovsky lingers for a moment, then approaches me.

  Like all of us, he wears a thick gray pressure suit. It makes his lanky frame look thicker, more solid. He holds a helmet under his right arm, visor reflecting the Ximbal’s lights. He cuts a dashing figure—the hero pilot off to save his race.

  “Em, I just wanted to thank you.”

  Physically, he is on the edge of being a fully grown man. Yet to me, he is beyond young. I am a millennium older than he is.

  “My name is Mattie. Em is gone.”

  He pauses, nods.

  “You always talked of gods,” I say. “Now we’re going to kill one. You sure you’re ready?”

  The tiniest sneer curls his upper lip. His eyes sparkle with hunger, a desire for revenge.

  “I’m ready. When someone dies, we say, Let the gods welcome him home. I wonder what gods say when they die.”

  I reach up and grip his right shoulder. “Kick some ass, Boris.”

  He smiles, then heads to his fighter.

  The Macanas are black, long and sleek. They sit so low I could swing my leg over the side to get into the cockpit. The fighters all bear the scars of an old battle. No wings, just a tube with an engine on one end, a Gatling gun on the other. Six thick poles angle back from behind the cockpit, each ending in a small thruster. Those change the ship’s orientation. A rear gunner is supposed to sit behind the pilot, but the rear guns were all cannibalized for parts, even the seats—those spaces now sit empty.

  Someone spray-painted a white null-set symbol on the side of each fighter. Drips of paint stretch down like frozen white blood.

  I look at Ximbal. Sure enough, someone painted the same symbol on the fat black missile mounted under the shuttle’s right wing. The Goff round is inside that missile. The nuke has been modified with something called a “chemical timer.” Now we can fire the missile in close to make sure it hits, and use the forty-five-second delay to get clear of the blast radius.

  I board the shuttle, climbing a ladder that takes the place of the still-missing metal ramp. I walk left, into what was the coffin room. Now it is a mass of thick plates welded in for extra protection. The length of the room has been converted to an ugly-looking contraption made of metal, plastic and, in some places, even wood. The construct holds several fused sections of the Xolotl’s ruined Goff Spear. Halves and gears spent six hours in exosuits, cutting free every straight bit of that warped barrel. Borjigin’s genius showed itself yet again—he combined several small pieces together to make this weapon.

  The Grownup engineers hadn’t thought of that possibility. Maybe they are too old to be creative. They were very impressed with Borjigin’s ingenuity. They should be.

  We haven’t test-fired the new cannon, of course. We can’t. We don’t know if it will work. If it does not, there is no hope.

  Past the cannon’s rear end is a hastily built metal rack, also covered in patchwork armor. Inside the rack, I can just make out the hexagonal shape of a Goff round.

  One round in a missile for the Grub, one in the cannon for the Dragon.

  Zubiri is working away, busying herself with final adjustments. She wears a thick pressure suit. She doesn’t have her helmet on yet—I see tears on her dark-brown cheeks.

  I
have lived a hundred lifetimes. She has barely begun to live just one.

  Together, we will both die today.

  Admiral Gaston’s voice rings through the shuttle.

  “Gunners, perform final checks, then retract barrels and button up for reentry. Everyone, remember that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy, and contact them we will. Stay calm, solve problems. And may the gods have mercy upon our enemies, because we sure as hell will not.”

  His words move me. I’m shocked: as old as I am, I didn’t think that was possible. Xander Gaston—the Admiral—has been my friend for twelve centuries. Of course he could find the words to motivate, to inspire, even in the face of death.

  2:17:46

  2:17:45

  2:17:44

  It’s time to fight.

  I head for the pilothouse.

  Ximbal streaks toward Omeyocan.

  The first time it came, it brought children desperate to stay alive.

  This time, it brings death.

  1:01:13

  1:01:12

  1:01:11

  I stand in the pilothouse. My charged bracelet is held in a bracket on the bulkhead wall. On one thigh, strapped over my pressure suit, is the sheathed knife I used on Omeyocan. On the other, my weld wand in its holster. My external pockets are stuffed with small tools, tubes of sealant, sheets of patch material.

  Abrantes is on my right. We’re assigned to damage control here. He knows engineering. I do not. Which means I—the “empress” of my people—will function merely as his assistant, as an extra set of hands.

  In front of us, bathed in light, are the Admiral and Noam Peura. We all wear thick gray pressure suits—unless you look through our clear helmet visors, Birthday Children and Cherished look exactly the same.

  All four of us are held firmly by tentacle-arms that extrude from the ceiling.

  The pilothouse walls appear transparent. Below us, night falls on the vast yellow, brown and blue spectacle of Omeyocan. One way or another, this will be the last time I set eyes upon the planet that our prophet promised to us thirteen centuries ago.

  I’ve made a decision. If I survive this mission, I’m done being the leader. My memories are returning. Em’s dream burns as bright to me as it did to her—I’ll write the history of what brought our people here. I think I’ll even use a paper and pen. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll create a new kind of “holy book.” My sins and mistakes can become a source of wisdom for future generations, a how-not-to guide of life, if you will.

  That’s if I survive. Which, most likely, I will not.

  “Attention, shuttle. This is the Xolotl.”

  The voice comes from the walls. It is Young Gaston.

  “Ximbal here,” the Admiral says. “Descending toward Uchmal to make our run.”

  “Be aware, Dragon has launched sixteen small craft. Relaying tracking info to your systems now. You’re about to hit that electrical interference, so I’ll lose contact with you. Good luck.”

  Sixteen fighters. We thought they had only eight. They kept some in reserve. We can only hope those sixteen are all they have left.

  Old Gaston glances back at me through the haze of glowing symbols that surround him.

  “Looks like your plan worked,” he says.

  Well, aren’t I the smart one?

  The interference. From here on out, the Xolotl can’t reach us, can’t warn us of any further threats. That means the Dragon, similarly, can’t warn the Wasp fighters. At least we hope that’s the case, because our entire plan hinges on it.

  “They’ll close on us before we reach Uchmal,” the Admiral says. “We’ll have to go through them to hit the Grub. If we survive that dogfight, they should all be chasing us when we go full-burn for the Dragon. Do you want to proceed, Empress? This is your last chance to abort the mission.”

  In truth, I’d love to abort. This hacked-up, ancient bucket of bolts going head-on against sixteen advanced enemy fighters? That’s not a positive equation. But we only have this one shot. And we need them behind us anyway for the plan to work.

  “Continue as planned,” I say.

  Old Gaston pushes a floating icon.

  “Attention, attention.” His voice rings through the shuttle. “Sixteen bogeys incoming, estimated contact, two minutes. Gunners prepare to fire. Damage control crews, get ready.”

  There’s no point in straying from our approach path. We want the Wasps to see where we’re going. I take a deep breath, try to enjoy the last few minutes of smooth flying.

  Abrantes turns to look at me. Red eyes stare at me through his clear visor. His mouth-flaps are wet.

  “You know how people always said you were a bitch?”

  People have said that. For a long, long time. Bitch is what they call you when you won’t do what you’re told.

  I nod.

  “You’re different now,” Abrantes says. “I like you better this way.”

  With that, he faces forward.

  Well, well, well. In my final moments, I’ve made a new friend.

  Past the Admiral, through the pilothouse walls, I can just make out the city of Uchmal, a distant spot nestled in the blanket of yellow jungle.

  “Here they come,” Old Gaston says. “Ten o’clock and down.”

  I look left. Through the darkening sky, sixteen points of light streak toward us.

  The Admiral’s hands move quickly. He’s not as fast as Young Gaston, true, but his movements are confident and sure.

  The shuttle shudders. Em’s memories tell me we’ve just fired missiles. Glowing flashes shoot away, trailing smoke tails that quickly fade into the growing blackness.

  The Admiral barks last-minute orders.

  “Bishop, ignore the lead ships, focus on third and beyond. Yong, I’m going to bank left and down when they pass, so they’ll be above you when they come into your arc. Bawden, Victor, hit anything that comes at our rear.”

  If the circle-stars answer, I don’t hear them.

  Ximbal banks hard, throwing me against my restraints. Abrantes grunts from the strain. A glimpse of a flash as a missile detonates. A new vibration from the floor beneath me as turret guns open fire.

  A shudder and a roar. A man’s scream. Air rushes in, loud as the angry shout of a god. The transparent wall to the right of Abrantes turns black.

  “Pilothouse damage,” Peura says, his cracking voice spookily calm. “Savage, Abrantes, please patch holes and repair the display.”

  He said please. We’re getting shot to hell, and the boy is polite?

  “Hold on to your privates,” the Admiral says, then the world whirls as he throws Ximbal into a tight, diving spin. The arm that holds me keeps me from flopping around, stops me from smashing into the pilothouse walls.

  The shuttle stops spinning—my head does not. I blink, try to get my bearings. Ragged tears in the floor beneath Abrantes, in the wall to his right.

  Then I see the hole in his left hand.

  Wild winds catch the red-gray stream pouring from his palm, scatter his blood all over the place.

  Abrantes pulls sealant from a pouch on his suit, squirts the entire tube into the hole. The expanding foam seals both the suit and the wound.

  “Don’t just watch, Savage,” he says. “Get those holes in the floor!”

  He moves to the wall and opens an access panel.

  Ximbal banks hard left and climbs. The mechanical arm keeps me on my feet, letting my body move a little to diffuse the momentum, then bringing me back to where I just was.

  “Today, Savage,” Abrantes screams. “Patch those holes!”

  I grab my weld wand from its holster. From a big pouch on my chest, I pull a sheet of patch material. The shuttle shudders and vibrates around me: missiles launching, cannons firing, bullets tearing into us. The bottom end of the weld gun is a vibroblade. It buzzes so fast it looks like a ghost, goes through metal like butter. I slice away ragged shards sticking up from the hole. Bits of metal scatter, thrown in all directions by Old Gaston’s ma
d maneuvers.

  Through the hole, the nighttime jungle of Omeyocan streaks by beneath us.

  I place the patch over the hole, then run the weld wand’s glowing blue tip along the edges. In seconds, the roar of rushing air dies down a little bit.

  “Display repaired,” Abrantes calls out.

  I patch another hole.

  Ximbal spins violently. Blood rushes to my head. The arm holds me in place. Something hits us, rattling so hard my arms and legs flop around like those of a rag doll. When I put my feet back down again, they slide in something wet.

  In the wall Abrantes just fixed is a hole the size of my chest. Abrantes lies on the floor in two pieces—he’s been torn in half. Red eyes stare out. The fingers of his right hand flex and twitch.

  “Abrantes,” Old Gaston calls out, “my rotational damper is sluggish, fix it.”

  “He’s gone,” I say.

  The Admiral turns in place, glances at the ravaged body, then again looks out Ximbal’s clear front.

  “Peura, disengage, repair the damper,” he says. “Savage, don’t just stand there like an idiot, patch the damn holes!”

  “Disengaging,” Peura says. The lights covering him blink out. He kneels, opens an access panel.

  Abrantes’s guts are all over the floor. I kneel, slide a pile of them toward a hole. Swirling wind sucks them out with a thwooop of air. I grab a patch and seal up the blood-smeared hole.

  The floor display is still working; I can see below us. We’re coming in shallow, just above the treetops.

  We’re rushing toward Uchmal’s walls. Far beyond them, the man-made mountain that is the Observatory rises up from the city center.

  Two wall towers lash out at us with tongues of stuttering orange—the Wasps have installed their own cannons.

  Something explodes to our left, then to our right. Ximbal begins to wobble in a way that I know is not good.