Alone

  He pushes my hands away.

  “No time. Peura, are you in the airlock?”

  There’s no answer.

  Through the flickering pilothouse wall, I see a gray-clad body floating out into space, frozen globs of blood trailing along, reflecting sunlight with jewel-like sparkles.

  I turn to leave. “I’ll bring him back.”

  “Stay here,” the Admiral barks, his tone so commanding it stops me cold. “Peura is gone. We’re going in.”

  He moves his hands, wincing at the pain. Ximbal heads down the trench.

  Maybe dying a good death matters to someone who has lived a thousand years. Peura lived only one year. I wonder if he had a chance to kiss someone, or if he died not knowing what that felt like.

  The shuttle slides over the still-bubbling crater and into the landing bay.

  A rush of déjà vu. This hangar is so much like ours back on the Xolotl—arcing metal beams overhead, walls curving down to meet the metal floor. The same, yet different. Different tanks and racks of equipment, two of their lethal fighters half-disassembled. I see a troopship and for a moment hope we might use it to escape, but there is a huge hole melted in its side.

  0:6:01

  0:6:00

  0:5:59

  I turn my wrist left, then right, activating my bracelet. I wish I had my spear, but I don’t. I draw my knife. My suit’s thick gloves make holding it a little awkward.

  Ximbal lowers. I feel the landing gear clank against the deck.

  “We’re down,” Xander says, his strained words echoing through our ravaged ship. “Boarding party, go!”

  I leave the pilothouse. Bishop and Victor are at the sliding external door. It looks like Swiss cheese. It won’t open all the way. Each man has his gloved fingers hooked around an edge. They yank and lean away from each other, forcing the opening wider.

  Not enough room for them to get out, but I’m smaller.

  I slide through and jump down. I hear Bishop shout, “Em, wait,” then I land. I notice it right away—this gravity is lighter than the Xolotl’s, than Omeyocan.

  I sweep my bracelet arm before me, looking for targets.

  There are none.

  Any Wasps in here must have had time to get to interior airlocks before the outer doors opened.

  The landing bay rattles.

  “Wasps are shutting exterior doors,” the Admiral says, his voice in my helmet. “We can’t stop it. When they close, the bay will repressurize and they’ll come pouring in. Zubiri, status?”

  0:5:15

  0:5:14

  0:5:13

  “Four minutes to arm,” she says. “Then one minute to detonation.”

  “Cutting it close,” the Admiral says. “Any longer and they’ll be able to fire their ship-killer at the Xolotl. Get it done.”

  We have five minutes to live. Five minutes to hold off the Wasps. Five damn minutes to keep the Xolotl alive.

  Bishop and Victor finally force the doors open enough to drop down, drawing my attention to the shuttle, the vehicle that has seen us through so much. It is shredded. In several places, I can see right through it to the far side of the landing bay. One wing dips at an angle. The rear is blackened, the metal slagged by what must have been intense fire.

  Ximbal let us escape Matilda. It kept us alive on Omeyocan. Without it, we couldn’t have killed the Grub. We wouldn’t be on the precipice of defeating our enemy. It is an inanimate object, yet it hurts to see it so abused.

  “Take cover,” Bishop calls out. “We caught them by surprise, but they’re probably putting on exosuits now. We’ll be under attack even before they pressurize the hangar. Bawden, stay with Zubiri and guard the bomb. Aeschelman, stay with the Admiral. Everyone else, grab a weapon and get out here!”

  I see an equipment rack packed with heavy metal boxes. I sprint to it. Each step launches me farther than I expect. It’s all I can do to stop from falling—I’m moving too fast and slam into the rack. I kneel and take cover as best I can. My heart kicks like a mule. I feel my pulse in my eyes, hear it in my ears.

  This is where I will die.

  Aramovsky’s voice over the commlink, scratchy, hard to understand: “What’s the status? Kalle and I are ready to escort you back.”

  “Negative, Aramovsky,” the Admiral answers. “Too much damage for us to get back. We’re staying here. Go home.”

  “Bullshit,” Aramovsky says instantly. “We’re not leaving you.”

  The huge doors clang shut, making the entire hangar reverberate.

  “Landing bay repressurizing,” the Admiral says. “About two minutes to completion, but some of the internal airlocks are already cycling—we’ll have company in less than thirty seconds.”

  0:4:22

  0:4:21

  0:4:20

  More of my crew drop down from the ravaged shuttle: Yong, Marcus and Lahfah. Lahfah holds a Springer rifle. Yong has a bracelet on his right arm, a sword in his left hand. Marcus is empty-handed; his pistol is still in its holster. Human, Grownup, Springer, yet our gray pressure suits make us look like soldiers in the same army—except for Lahfah’s tail, of course.

  She hops once, soars high. She lets out a squeak of surprise.

  Yong bounds toward a bulkhead that will give him some cover.

  “Low grav,” he says. “Fantastic! What a final fight this will be!”

  Marcus stands there, confused.

  “Marcus, to me,” I call, waving my arm. He sees me, comes running, the suit making his movements clumsy and awkward.

  “Mattie, why aren’t we leaving? We have to get out of here!”

  Through his visor, his face is a wide-eyed, open-mouth visage of panic.

  “We’re not leaving,” I say. I pull his pistol from his holster, shove it against his chest.

  He takes it, looks at it like it might sting him. He’s not cut out for this. He’s going to die here, just like the rest of us. I hope he can take a few Wasps with him.

  0:4:01

  0:4:00

  0:3:59

  If the nuke doesn’t blow, all of this effort is for nothing.

  “Zubiri,” I say, “we still on track?”

  “Almost there,” she calls back. “Countdown clock is accurate.”

  The comm line buzzes with multiple voices.

  Yong: “Kill ’em all and let the gods sort ’em out. Let’s get some!”

  Xander: “Internal airlock doors about to open.”

  Bishop: “Copy that. Ximbal’s nose is twelve o’clock for all directional call-outs. We can…Airlock opening at ten o’clock! Here they come!”

  Ten o’clock is to my front left, past the shuttle. I see airlock doors slide open—a half-dozen Wasps pour in, their pressure suits red, not gray, their black rifles raging on full automatic.

  Bracelet beams slice into them from several angles. The first two Wasps burst apart before they make it two steps into the hangar. I level my arm and flick my fingers forward, drop another one.

  The rational part of me knows these Wasps are descendants of those who built their ship. In that way, they are no different than we are—fighting to stay alive, to protect their own kind. The emotional side of me, though, understands it is us or them, that this race has slaughtered my friends; every time my bracelet beam rips one to wet pieces, delicious satisfaction sweeps through my soul.

  “Airlock opening at two o’clock,” Yong shouts. “Take them out!”

  The hangar devolves into utter chaos. I aim, fire, watch my beams cut down one Wasp after another. Bullets pound into the metal boxes in front of me.

  A small metal ball bounces past me, skids out of view, then an explosion rocks me against the rack. Marcus falls to his hands and knees. He’s lost his pistol. I don’t think he fired a single shot.

  Xander’s voice roars so loud it distorts my helmet speakers: “Landing bay fully pressurized, all airlocks opening—here they come!”

  0:2:24

  0:2:23

  0:2:22

 
Even through my suit and helmet, I hear doors hiss open, hear the screech-click war cry of Wasps rushing in. Strange heads, stranger clothes, fuchsia bodies. They’re not wearing pressure suits. Some have guns, but most hold wrenches, pipes, knives, one is swinging a chair…these aren’t soldiers, they were just the closest to the landing bay.

  I flick my fingers forward, turning one into meat.

  Aim, flick. Aim, flick. Aim, flick.

  They are an avalanche—too many to stop.

  “Eat this, you shit-bug bastards!” The Admiral’s voice.

  Ximbal’s front right cannon turret moves—the thick beam lashes out, slashes through the oncoming wave of Wasps. Body parts fly in all directions, splash yellow blood on the walls, the floor, even the ceiling high above.

  Marcus stands, tears off his helmet. He looks around wildly, chest heaving.

  “Mattie, get me out of here! Please!”

  I realize he’s beyond the cover of our rack a moment before a bullet punches through his left temple and blows his brains out the right side of his skull.

  He drops. Three Wasps rush around the rack. I react instantly. Aim-flick: the first Wasp erupts, splashing my visor with gore, but I’m already thrusting with my knife, through the blood-mist, driving the blade deep into the Wasp right behind. The third Wasp wears a red pressure suit, raises a rifle to my face.

  I twist as it fires—the bullet burst hammers the metal boxes that protected me. I dive at the Wasp’s legs. We both go down, sliding across splattered blood and chunks of flesh.

  The Wasp reaches behind its narrow back, pulls a long knife. I thrust, he counters and slashes. I grab the wrist of his knife hand just as he grabs mine.

  We roll across the deck, a desperate, primitive fight for life made awkward by the bulky pressure suits.

  A massive explosion throws us hard against the rack. Metal boxes fall out, hit my helmet, bang hard against my shoulder. I fight the pain that clouds my thoughts, threatens to drag me into darkness.

  “Gaston’s dead!” Aeschelman, shouting over the comm. “They hit his gun with a grenade! They’re rushing the shuttle, I’m falling back to protect Zubiri!”

  Zubiri: “Almost there! Keep them off of me!”

  Bishop: “Victor’s down!”

  I struggle to my knees.

  My body won’t respond…everything is sluggish, half-speed.

  In Ximbal’s exterior door, Bawden half-hides behind a bullet-riddled bulkhead, one hand jabbing her pitchfork down over and over, the other firing bracelet beams, both weapons tearing into a dozen Wasps trying to climb up and in. I hear her guttural screams of rage…she doesn’t make words, she gives voice to pure violence.

  Yong bounds across the floor toward her—a spray of bullets cuts the ancient circle-star down in mid-leap. He hits the deck, skids to a stop against the landing gear.

  He doesn’t move.

  The Wasp I was fighting rises, slashes at me. I twist away, but the blade slices through my pressure suit and cuts deep into my shoulder. I feel the edge glance off bone.

  The pain is overwhelming.

  I don’t know where my knife is.

  It slashes at me again. I fall to my back, barely avoiding a blade that trails a thin arc of my own blood.

  The Wasp raises the knife high—a Springer hatchet arcs down, thunks through the red pressure suit and into the Wasp’s back.

  The Wasp twitches once, slumps to the side, hatchet handle sticking up at a strange angle.

  Lahfah helps me up, then scoops up a loose Wasp rifle and starts firing away.

  The hangar is filled with smoke. Raging flames cast strange shadows, making everything dance with light. Alarms scream. The dead are everywhere.

  Movement—I look to the shuttle, see Bishop flying through the air, axe raised overhead, an impossible leap made possible by the lighter gravity. He roars as he comes down, kicking one Wasp away from Ximbal’s door, driving the blade down through the head of another. Somehow, he lands next to Bawden, who dies a split second later as bullets trace a tight line from her left hip to her right shoulder.

  Aeschelman: “They found a way in!”

  Zubiri: “They’re coming! Help me, it’s not ready yet!”

  Bishop vanishes into the shuttle. Behind him, a handful of Wasps finally clamber through the door.

  0:1:45

  0:1:44

  0:1:43

  “Mattie, this is Aramovsky, what’s going on?”

  The idiot didn’t leave?

  “Get out of here, dammit! Get clear!”

  “Screw that. Everyone, find something to hold on to, I’m coming in!”

  My legs are knocked out from under me. The bloody metal floor smacks against my helmet. Spiderweb cracks spread across my visor, make it impossible to see. I grab at the helmet, tear it free. It rolls to the side, stops when it hits Lahfah.

  She’s lying next to me.

  Through her visor, her three eyes are half-lidded, lifeless…she’s dead.

  Barkah will be heartbroken.

  Three Wasps step over her body. Not wearing pressure suits. A wrench, an axe…only one carries what might be a gun, a small pistol.

  Reality slows.

  My final seconds stretch out. Time is thick syrup. I savor my last gasping breath, taste my own blood. Even the agony in my shoulder is delicious in its own way, for it is my body warning me of the damage, trying to keep me alive. Life. About to end.

  A gun barrel presses against my temple.

  It has been a good life—a long life.

  A roar so loud the sound alone shakes me. Screeching metal, every atom in the hangar smashing together.

  I’m still alive?

  That roar…it wasn’t the Wasp’s gun.

  Air moves around me. All of the air.

  I’m coming in, Aramovsky said.

  In an instant, time snaps back to normal and brings hell with it.

  Wind screams, hits so hard it knocks the Wasps off their feet. A line of small explosions traces through the hangar door, slowly forming a wide circle.

  Aramovsky is using his Macana’s Gatling gun to cut a large hole in the thick metal—the landing bay is decompressing, fast.

  Wind howls louder, pushes harder.

  One of the Wasps tries to rise—the wind knocks it down, pulls it toward the ravaged door.

  The heavy rack…its supports are bolted to the deck. I grab the support, hook the elbow of my wounded arm around it.

  My helmet starts to roll—I snag it just before it’s out of reach.

  The second Wasp tumbles across the deck, the wind dragging it toward its death, dragging Lahfah’s corpse as well.

  A Wasp hand locks down on my ankle.

  The ship trembles around me. I look to the landing bay doors just as the last Gatling gun rounds slice through it—the ragged-edged metal circle rips clear as explosive decompression hurls it out into space.

  The wind blows so strong the Wasp is actually lifted into the air, its grip on my leg the only thing stopping it from being flung across the landing bay and out that hole.

  The alien looks at me. The battle has been madness, a cacophony of sights and sounds and dangers, keeping me from focusing on any one thing. Until now—for the first time I see this race’s living eyes. The eyes are magenta, with flecks of gold.

  They sparkle.

  Those eyes are perhaps the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

  I recognize the emotion within them—the Wasp is terrified.

  Not a soldier. A mechanic, perhaps? A craftsman? Is this intelligent being an artist? Does it make music? Have a family?

  Its tight grip on my ankle is the only thing stopping it from being launched out into space. The wind batters me. The Wasp’s weight adds to my own: the support digs into my elbow, makes my entire arm scream with agony.

  I whip the helmet down on the hand that holds my ankle, once, twice, a third time.

  Something in the alien’s hand breaks.

  The magenta eyes lo
ok into mine one last time, begging, pleading for life.

  It wants to live.

  So do I.

  I bring the helmet down again, and the death grip finally loosens. The Wasp flies through the air. It hits the edge of the jagged hole, spins away, and is gone.

  The wind dies out in an instant, easing the pressure on my arm. Internal airlock doors must have closed, cutting the landing bay off from the rest of the ship’s air supply.

  I can’t breathe.

  Fighting the pain in my arm, I put the helmet back on my head, lock it into place. Air pours in, oxygen fills my lungs.

  The gunfire has stopped. The flames are all out. The smoke is gone. Warning lights continue to flash, but if there are alarms, I can’t hear them, because there is no air in here to carry the sound.

  0:1:06

  0:1:05

  0:1:04

  The speakers in my helmet still work.

  “This is Bishop. I’ve got Zubiri. Aeschelman’s dead. Anyone else left?”

  “I’m here,” I croak, my voice barely audible even to me.

  “Bomb armed,” Zubiri says, her voice frail, dripping with pain. “One minute till detonation. Goodbye, everyone. I love you all.”

  Bishop saved her. Or, more accurately, he saved the bomb—she’s going to die anyway.

  As is he.

  As am I.

  And then, something flies through the blood-streaked hole in the hangar bay doors.

  A Macana fighter…

  Long and sleek and black and narrow, with a white null-set symbol spray-painted on the side. Reverse engines fire. It instantly slows to a stop, spins so the nose is pointed toward the hole. Landing gear hits the deck. The engines cut out.

  The canopy slides back.

  A helmeted pilot stands. A tall pilot.

  Aramovsky.

  I use the last of my strength, force myself to rise.

  “Get out of here,” I say. “You don’t need to die.”

  He sees me. He leaps out of the cockpit and bounds toward me.

  What is he doing? It’s too late.

  “Forty-five seconds,” Zubiri says.

  Aramovsky reaches me, throws me over his shoulder. I’m too spent to fight him. I’m cold all over.

  He rushes back to the fighter, places me in the empty space where the gunner’s chair once sat. I look back to Ximbal—Bishop is lowering Zubiri down to a waiting Victor. I thought Victor was dead, but there he is, stumbling toward me with Zubiri in his arms.