“Hem.” He gestures toward Aramovsky. “Move.”
We do. Barkah and I walk to Aramovsky’s spider. I climb the rungs. I stand before the red-robed “leader” of our people. Barkah climbs up as well, then stands next to me, shoulder to shoulder. Human and Springer together, facing down a common enemy.
Aramovsky sneers at me. “The food doesn’t matter, you gullible idiot. Don’t you understand? They…aren’t…human. This war will happen now, or it will happen later. Someday they will come for us. They will kill us because we…aren’t…them. And if you’re still alive, you’ll know you sold out your own people to these monsters.”
“The only monster here is you,” I say. “No more fighting. No more death.”
Aramovsky’s chest heaves. There is a scream inside him, a scream that has no voice, no home. I know he is thinking the same thing I thought when he took the spear from me, that he can run me through, fight to keep what he believes is his and his alone.
Slowly, gently, Barkah draws the knife given to him by O’Malley. The knife with the double-ring made of red stones. The knife with the blade as long as my forearm. The Springer prince keeps the knife at his side. The tip points down, not at Aramovsky, but the message is clear.
Aramovsky stares at it, eyes wide. Threatening an unarmed person is one thing—facing an armed opponent is another.
“Barkah and I are in this together,” I say. “You attack one of us, you attack both of us. You wanted to kill Springers, Aramovsky? Well, here’s your chance. If you’re going to fight, then do something with that spear besides just pose with it.”
The fingers of his bracelet hand twitch. Maybe he’s wondering if he can fire twice before one of us gets to him. But I don’t think he’ll try. For him, the bracelet and the spear are little more than props. He is a leader, yes, but he is no warrior. When the time for speeches is past, when he must kill or be killed, Aramovsky’s conviction turns to cowardice.
He doesn’t move. I wait, let everyone see he’s afraid to back up his words with actions.
I hold out my hand.
“If you won’t do yourself what you ask others to do for you, then give me back my godsdamned spear, you murdering bastard.”
We stare at each other. The universe fades away: there is only the two of us.
Infinite moments pass by.
Aramovsky breaks. He looks away. Without another word, he tilts the spear toward me.
I take it. The cool wood feels nice in my hand.
“Remove that bracelet, Aramovsky—and get off my spider. I’ll deal with you later.”
He slides the bracelet from his arm, lets it clatter to the spider’s metal deck.
As I watch him descend the rungs, I hear sounds of surprise and alarm from my people.
While Aramovsky and I faced off, the Springers—thousands of them—quietly closed in. Their line runs under the shuttle, winding around the landing gear, spreading out wide on either side. Some of them stare at the shuttle in open amazement, gawking at something their kind hasn’t seen in generations. Far more stare at us, muskets leveled, enough that one volley would probably kill everyone.
My people reply in kind, leveling bracelets, climbing to spiderback and manning cannons or crouching low with hoes and picks and axes and shovels. Even if all of us die in that first salvo, Spingate and Gaston remain safe inside the shuttle. If the Springers attack, I know she will unleash the shuttle’s weapons, try to wipe out this violent species so that her unborn child may someday live safe and free.
If I don’t do something now, I haven’t stopped the slaughter, I’ve only delayed it.
“Lower your weapons,” I shout at my people. “This fight is over!”
Some comply, some don’t.
Barkah yells at his kind, loud and commanding. I don’t know what he’s saying, but the result is immediate: most of the Springers lower their musket barrels. They haven’t put their guns down, but they aren’t aiming them at us, either.
We’re doing it. Barkah and I, together, we’re going to stop this.
Then, a bark of command from behind the Springer lines. The muskets snap up again, each one dead-level, aimed at me, at Bishop, at the spider riders, at the children holding tools. My people do the same: we’re one trigger twitch shy of a bloodbath.
Another bark from behind the lines, somewhere under the shuttle. Straight out from my spider, the Springer line splits.
Four of the biggest Springers I’ve seen yet hop forward, their muskets aimed at me. Bluish-red skin marked with scars, weapons strapped to their bodies: axes, knives, swords. Any one of them looks like a match for Bishop when Bishop is at his best.
Two of them move slightly to the right, two slightly to the left.
From between them hops forward an old Springer, one whose blue skin is turning ashen and gray. Hanging from his neck is an ornate copper plate.
Barkah’s parent: the Springer king.