Mazer had hoped to find a group or family that Bingwen could go with, but it wouldn’t be this lot. They were reckless and loud and likely to get Bingwen killed. The smart thing to do would be to move on and stay clear of them. Let the Formics find them. Not our problem.
But Mazer was desperate for information. He knew nothing about the Formics’ position or movements. He might be walking Bingwen straight toward a Formic stronghold. It was a risk to talk to whoever was out there, but it was a risk Mazer knew he had to take.
For a moment he considered ordering Bingwen to stay behind while he advanced and approached the fire, but he didn’t feel comfortable leaving Bingwen alone, and he doubted Bingwen would like the idea either. “Stay close,” said Mazer. “And step as quietly as you can until we’re certain they’re friendly.”
They moved toward the light, Mazer leading, sword in hand. When they were halfway across the field Mazer stopped and sniffed at the air.
“What is it?” Bingwen whispered.
“That smell,” said Mazer. “It smells like … lobster.”
Bingwen sniffed. “I smell it too.”
Mazer tightened his grip on the sword hilt, and they drew closer to camp. Soon the vague shapes in the firelight took form. There were five men and one woman, all of them crouched on the ground, huddled around something, the fire behind them. There was a spit above the flames with some creature roasting on it. As Mazer drew closer he saw that the cooked creature was the bottom half of a Formic. The people were eating the top half, which they had pulled off the spit and placed on the ground, surrounding it like a pack of scavengers.
Mazer felt sick. He wanted to retreat, but they were close to the fire now, and the woman saw them. She cried out, and the men were instantly on their feet, weapons in hand. They had staves and knives and machetes. They were peasants. Their clothes were torn and stained, their faces wild. They were thin and sallow and desperate.
Mazer didn’t move. Bingwen hid behind him. No one spoke.
One of the men with a machete finally said, “This is our food. There’s not enough for you.”
“We don’t want your food,” said Mazer.
“He’s lying,” said the man with a knife. “He wants it all right. Look at his eyes.”
“You shouldn’t eat that,” said Mazer. “It’s the wrong arrangement of proteins. It wasn’t made for humans to eat.”
“See?” said the man with the knife. “He’s trying to trick us and take it from us.”
“They collect their dead,” said Mazer. “They might come for this one.”
The men glanced up in the sky around them as if they thought a transport might descend right on top of them.
The woman was behind the men near the fire. She turned away suddenly and began to retch. The men watched her. The woman fell to her hands and knees and emptied her stomach onto the dirt. The men recoiled and looked down at the dismembered Formic at their feet, its skin charred and black from the fire, its chest cut open and steaming in the glow of the fire.
One of the men began to retch, and Mazer grabbed Bingwen’s hand and ran.
*
At dawn they found a highway. There were deserted cars—some intact, other smashed and shattered and wrecked. There were craters in the Earth two meters wide from explosions and laser fire. There were scorch marks everywhere, accompanied by deep cuts in the earth and asphalt. There were no bodies, but there were dark stains of blood everywhere. Mazer tried starting several of the vehicles, but the batteries and fuel cells had been stripped.
They continued on foot, following the highway north for a few hours. They saw more destruction and deserted vehicles. When they heard aircraft, they hid and waited for it to pass.
At midday they found a family with two young children resting in the shade of an overpass. The wife said little, but she offered Bingwen and Mazer soup, which they both gratefully accepted.
“We stayed hidden in an underground storage shed,” said the father. “We had enough food for over a week. We thought we could hold out until help came, but no soldiers ever came for us. We’re moving north now.”
Bingwen was off to the side, playing with the four-year-old boy, tossing wads of rags back and forth to each other like a ball. It was the first time Mazer had ever seen Bingwen laugh.
“Can you take the boy?” Mazer asked.
“Food is scarce,” said the father.
“He’s smart, resourceful. I can’t pay you now, but when the war is over, I will.”
“You may not be alive when the war is over. Or we may not win the war.”
“We’ll win. Take the boy.”
The father considered, then nodded. They made the arrangements, and in no time Mazer was kneeling in front of Bingwen, handing him the sword.
“Here,” said Mazer, “your grandfather would want you to have this.”
Bingwen took it. “I am safer with you at the lander than I am with this family in the north.”
“They’re good people, Bingwen. They’ll feed you. That’s more than I can do.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “When this is over, I want you to contact me. I’ll get you enrolled in a school. A good school, where they’ll feed you and take care of you.”