I angle my spear toward the Springer prince.
Barkah looks at it. After watching Aramovsky give it to me, I think he understands the weapon’s significance.
“Your turn,” I say. “I’m afraid I can’t do the talking here.” I give the spear a little shake. “Together. We do this together.”
His two good eyes—two alert, pain-filled eyes—look at me.
“Hem…peace.”
I nod. “Peace.”
His right hand reaches out, grips the spear. As one, we raise my people’s symbol of leadership.
Barkah talks. I don’t understand a word he says. I see Springers’ guns waver, see the aliens looking at each other, looking at their ruler. Perhaps some emotions are constant in any intelligent species—these Springers are confused, they are being told two things and don’t know which is true.
The Springer king’s entire body contorts. His eyes widen, his lips angrily curl back, show teeth. He screams at Barkah. He turns and screams at his people, first to the left, then repeating the same thing to the right.
And then I hear something soft, something nearly silent. If I wasn’t standing right next to Barkah, our arms together raising the spear, I wouldn’t have heard it at all. The sound sends a chill up my spine, tells me that something is horribly wrong.
It is the sound of broken glass.
Quietly, to himself, Barkah is laughing—laughing like a person who is watching a plan unfold, like someone who knew exactly what was going to happen.
The Springer king turns to face us. He says something, and the bodyguard on his right hands over his musket. The Springer king puts the butt to his thin shoulder: he aims it at us.
He says something else, something angry, definitive and commanding.
I again hear Barkah’s tiny broken-glass laugh. The prince raises his left arm.
He’s wearing Aramovsky’s bracelet.
I freeze. I didn’t even see him pick it up.
I stare. So does the king. That sense of command, of absolute authority, it leaves his eyes. For a horrible moment, I can read his emotions: shock, disbelief…betrayal.
Barkah flicks his two fingers forward.
The beam lashes out. White fire engulfs the king. The alien scream—a sound I will never be able to forget—lasts only a split second, then ends forever as his body rips into a hundred pieces. Blue blood and meat chunks splatter on the Springers behind him, splash his bodyguards with charred gore.
The spear is yanked from my hand.
Barkah raises his arms, the spear held in one hand, the other hand outstretched, letting the morning sun glisten off his bracelet.
He talks for a few seconds. Again, I don’t know what he says, but I don’t have to understand the words to see their effect: the long, seemingly endless line of Springer guns hovers, flutters, lowers. One or two at first, then in a wave, until all the muskets point down at the ground.
One by one, the Springers lower their heads. They drop.
They kneel.
There must be a hundred bodies scattered across the battlefield. Humans and Springers alike, shredded by weapons both primitive and advanced. And I suddenly wonder if it didn’t have to be this way, if Barkah could have stopped all of it—but he didn’t want to.
Maybe what he really wanted was to become the leader of his people.
As with many things, maybe our two races are more alike than we are different. Barkah wanted power.
The Springer prince—no, the new king—turns to me. He thonks the spear butt on the deck, leans the tip toward me, offering me the weapon.
“Hem…peace.”
Yes, peace. At what cost? And for how long?
I take the spear.
While I don’t know what the future holds, this battle, at least, is finished.
It is a beautiful day on Omeyocan. The reddish sun beats down. Blurd wings sparkle in the light. I smell fresh-baked bread and roasting meat. We will eat well tonight.
A short distance from the Observatory, Muller slows my spider. He’s done this enough times now that he doesn’t need to be told what to do. The child soldier stops us in front of the black X, lowers the machine’s belly. Metal clangs against stone; no more vines on this street, as we cleared them away.
Muller—or Victor, as he prefers to be called—missed the battle entirely. Matilda locked him in an Observatory cell. Once things calmed down, we found him and let him out. He’s a circle-star, so he’s still somewhat bitter he didn’t get a chance to fight. Like most kids with his symbol, he’s constantly eager to prove himself. If I have my way, he’ll never get that chance, because we’ll never fight again.
I hand him my spear.
“Hold this for a moment?”
He takes it, holds it as if it’s a magical talisman. Maybe he’ll hold it permanently one day; if so, he’ll find out it’s far more burden than blessing.
I climb out.