Them by K. A. Applegate
Tamara fell, but as she fell she ripped the spear point down and scored a deep cut on the Riders left forefoot.
She landed, stabbed up and at an angle, and buried the point of her spear in the chiefs lower belly, just beneath the beetle carapace.
Things began to happen to her. Things that those who watched would never later be able to explain or even sequence.
She rolled beneath the chiefs hoverboard and threw her spear. It hit one of the Riders and skewered his eating head.
On her back, upward kick, she connected with the back edge of the wounded chiefs unstable hoverboard. The chief toppled off and landed face first in the dust. His board shot away, unguided.
Tamara back somersaulted, landed, kicked, and flew high to land with both boots planted on the chiefs shoulders. There was a crunching sound, a bundle of twigs being snapped. She snatched the chiefs scimitar and ran, screaming, straight at the remaining four Riders.
She leaped with far more than human muscle and flew at the nearest Rider, sword point straight out in front. The Rider backed up, reared back, and Tamara changed direction in midair.
Changed direction without touching anything. Part of her mind registered this fact as impossible. And yet, her wild leap changed direction like some mad curveball and she swept her scimitar across and sliced both heads from one of the Riders.
The last three uninjured Riders turned their hoverboards and raced away at full speed, shrieking, yowling.
Tamara landed easily and calmly walked back to the chief, who was fatally injured, but was taking a while to accept that fact.
Tamara knelt by him and looked down at him with interest, right into his faceted, emotionless eyes.
Dont mess with a Maker, she whispered.
Get their weapons, she instructed the slack-jawed onlookers.
She winked at 2Face, gathered up the baby, and only with greatest effort of will concealed the exhaustion that was like the ground opening up to swallow her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN MOTHER IS CONFUSED.
Theyre coming down the steps! Violet said tersely.
Jobs had seen them. The demons, the tittering, creepy, skin-crawling mob of them were shadowing the humans, following. Lower, always lower. Every path going up was blocked. Every door leading to the outside was filled with demons.
Impossible not to conclude that the demons were herding them. Guiding them ever lower. Down and down. To some inferno? To some vision of hell?
Jobs resented it. Beyond being scared, he resented it. This is what came of superstition, he told himself, knowing he was being unreasonable. Some late-Middle-Ages painter didnt know his painting would become a real-life horror a billion miles away from Earth. Still, Jobs resented it. This is what came of believing nonsense.
The Blue Meanie had become a part of the group. It wasnt something anyone had decided, it had just happened. They moved together, Jobs, MoSteel, Violet, Olga, Billy, and now the Meanie.
Down stone steps. Across echoing chambers. Through doors. Around open wells that might go down forever.
No, Jobs reminded himself, the wells didnt go down forever. They could go no farther than the outer hull of the ship. This was a ship. This was not some version of hell wrapped up inside the Tower of Babel. This was the ships attempt to invent an environment based on input it could not possibly understand.
The ship whether person or machine was merely using the data it had available. It probably didnt even understand that the data was art, not some representation of reality. The ship was building a world for them, for humans, and may not know that it was using data derived from an outrageous imagination.
Thats what Jobs tried to tell himself, but a different feeling was growing, a suspicion. What rational creature could fail to see the difference between fact and fiction? The ship, the alien or computer, or whatever it was, could see actual humans, could see what they were, how they looked, how they moved, spoke, ate, drank. Surely the ship noticed that there was a disconnect between the actual humans and the artistic re-creations of them. Surely in all the terabytes of data the ship had downloaded from the shuttle, all the culture and history, the books and photos and recordings, surely the ship had been able to figure out what was real and what was not.
The ship was messing with them. Thats what Jobs felt, though he couldnt prove it. The ship had an agenda. The ship was up to something.
Or else the ship was just stupid.
Could it machine or organism be this powerful and sophisticated and yet be stupid? Possible. Termites made huge mounds, self-contained civilizations of enormous complexity, but no termite had yet learned to read.
Powerful and stupid? Was the ship some sort of intelligence so profoundly alien that it simply couldnt understand the data? Could only plug it in and hope for the best?
We need a rest, Jobs said.
MoSteel nodded. I have blisters on my blisters.
Okay, right here, then, Jobs said and he set down the stretcher none too gently. He was also bitterly resenting Billy now. The guy should either wake up or die. Instead he lay there like a vegetable.
Lets close that door at least, Olga said. She slammed a wooden door behind them. It would only delay the appearance of the demons who would eventually arrive via a stairway to the left or perhaps appear in the following open door.
Jobs lay back flat on the cool stone. The Meanie stopped, stood apart, but did not move away.
How is there light in here? Jobs wondered. Theres no light source.
Violet said, Theres no painting without light.
Were in a maze, MoSteel said. He jerked a thumb at the Blue Meanie. Maybe he knows where we are.
Why dont you ask him? Jobs said, snappish.
Violet sat hugging her legs to her. In his present resentful mood Jobs was glad at least that the Jane had not managed to find anything to sit on but floor.
We should never have left the shuttle, Jobs muttered, daring anyone to argue the point. No one took the bait.
I kind of hate to bring this up, MoSteel said awkwardly. But I need some privacy.
Jobs shot him a frown, then realized what MoSteel was talking about. Just turn away.
Not that. The other, MoSteel said primly.
Sweetie, its a natural thing, we all have to go, Olga said.
MoSteel blushed and glanced at Violet.
Jobs rolled his eyes. The truth was, he could use some privacy himself. But the room was nothing but bare, blank stone. There was a well, one of the open holes on the far side of the chamber, but there was nothing blocking it off.
Well all turn away, Olga said. Miss Blake? Were all turning away.
Violet shook herself out of a reverie. Excuse me?
Were all turning away. That way, Olga repeated.
Ah, Violet said, grasping the situation at last.
MoSteel moved off and Jobs focused his attention on the alien. The Blue Meanie stood at rest. He seemed to be looking, insofar as he could be said to be looking at anything particular, at Billy. And once again, Billys lips were moving silently.
Suddenly the Meanie reared up, not standing on its hind legs, but seeming to lengthen its front legs to bare the oval panel on its chest.
This again, Jobs thought.
The panel brightened. Like a low-wattage light had gone on behind it.
A stream of letters and symbols appeared, racing by.
Hey! Jobs yelled. Look at this.
The letters scrolled, widened to fill the screen, shrank, split into multiple lines, then resolved back to one. The scroll slowed. Individual letters could be seen, then clusters forming nonsense words.
Then . . .
I AM FOUR SACRED STREAMS.
Jobs was on his feet. Violet came and stood beside him.
Its communicating, Violet said.
Its writing, Jobs agreed. How? And what are we supposed to do, write back? We dont have anything with a keyboard.
Or pen and paper, Violet added.
Yeah, that would have worked,
Can I have a minute here? MoSteel yelled back, sounding uncharacteristically petulant.
My name is Violet Blake, Violet said to the alien.
No answer. The message remained fixed: I AM FOUR SACRED STREAMS.
Maybe thats all the language its acquired, Jobs suggested.
MoSteel rejoined the group, refusing to meet anyones eye. Another time Jobs would have been amused by his friends embarrassment. MoSteel wasnt just old-fashioned, he was positively Victorian.
Whats up? MoSteel asked.
Jobs pointed at the glowing oval and the five printed words.
Huh, MoSteel said. Is that his name? Like a Native American name? Or is he saying he actually is four streams?
Four streams of what? Olga wondered. Sacred streams, Violet said with a shrug. Oh! The message had changed.
MEANING UNDERSTOOD VIOLET BLAKE.
How does he know my name? she wondered.
You told him, Jobs pointed out. A few minutes ago. You said, Im Violet Blake. It just took him this long to decipher your response.
Its hard to see how well ever have a good conversation at this speed, Violet said.
Jobs knelt down beside Billy. He turned so he could see the alien and the boy at the same time. Hello, Four Sacred Streams. What is your species called?
Billy Weir slowly, silently repeated the words. It took a long time. The alien replied.
WE ARE THE CHILDREN. THE TRUE CHILDREN OF MOTHER.
Doesnt clear up much, MoSteel said. Were all our Mothers children.
But Jobs smiled, deeply happy. He gently smoothed Billys hair. Good job, Billy. Ask him what he wants.
This time Billys lips did not move. The answer came immediately.
I MUST STOP TRANSMISSIONS FROM THIS NODE.
Jobs was more surprised by the speed of response and Billys failure to mouth the question. Touch? Was that it?
Jobs pulled his hand away from Billy. Ask him what he means by node.
Billy began mouthing the words, slowly, painfully slowly.
NODE 31 PROJECTS THIS ENVIRONMENT.
Jobs held his breath, touched his hand to Billys arm, and said, Why must you stop transmission from this node?
The reply was immediate.
THIS ENVIRONMENT WILL KILL ME, the Meanie wrote. Then it added, THIS ENVIRONMENT WILL KILL YOU.
Jobs felt his hand trembling. He was communicating with an alien species. How he was doing so he couldnt say. Hed worry about that later. Are you saying this ship is trying to kill us?
MOTHER WILL KILL US.
Is . . . when you say Mother do you mean the ship? Is the ship Mother?
Yes.
Why would the . . . why would Mother want to kill us?
MOTHER IS, the Meanie wrote, then hesitated over the next word before adding, CONFUSED.
Jobs frowned, intent on getting to some understanding. But just then the demons reappeared, a rush of them, running down the steps, led now by a tall, painfully thin man with a bare skull for a head. MoSteel yelped.
Mother has to have downloaded Monet, Utrillo, Cézanne, OKeeffe . . . but she picks Bosch? Violet complained.
COMMUNICATE MORE LATER, Four Sacred Streams said.
Yeah. Run now, talk later, MoSteel agreed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE CHAMELEON.
Bad move, 2Face told herself. It had been a monumentally bad move.
She had tried to save herself by sacrificing Tamara and the baby. She had played the game of high-school politics and lost. Tamara owned the group now; no one was going to expel her. Tamara was the toughest kid in school now. She had respect.
Which left 2Face and Edward as the designated freaks.
With the threat of the Riders receding, Yago would make his move against 2Face. He would win. 2Face would lose and become the all-purpose goat. It was inevitable.
In this place, scared, disoriented, hungry and thirsty, and with shaky leadership, the people were reverting to more primitive models. Good-bye to liberal civilization with its tolerance and inclusiveness. Scared, powerless people needed scapegoats. Yago knew this and Yago knew that the one who is different is always the first choice to play the role of scapegoat.
Burn the witch.
2Face touched her face. Touched the crenellated line where whole flesh met scar tissue. Another few weeks and shed have been through the surgery and treatment. Another few weeks and she would have been normal.
Shed made a virtue of being a freak, back on Earth. In a place where ugliness was merely a curable medical condition, her jarring, disconcerting face was almost a statement: Look, heres pain, heres ugliness, deal with it.
In tame, secure, enlightened, early-twenty-first-century America, it was safe enough to be provocative and different. This place was a long way from all that.
2Face looked at the others, scanning, hoping to find some angle she could work. She had to avoid becoming the other, the outsider. The only way to do that was to find a substitute victim. Shed tried to make Tamara that victim, but that was before Tamara had single-handedly slaughtered the Riders.
2Face knew what she was thinking was wrong. Obviously it was wrong. Or would be, back in the world, but here she was fighting for her life. She was the freak. She was the ugly one. By the relentless logic of Yagos need, 2Face would be the one to be shunned, excluded, blamed, and vilified.
2Face slumped, head in hands. Yago was carefully not looking in her direction. He was waiting till the rush of the victory had worn off. He was waiting for his moment. Hours? A day, even?
He hated her for nothing, for a casual blow-off way back on Earth. And for being smart enough to see him as he was.
2Face rocked slowly back and forth on her heels, glared at her father, raged at him silently. Didnt he know theyd go for him next? He was the father of the freak, after all.
Only one thing to do. Only one way. She had to leave. Walk now, before they could make her run. Go to Jobs and his group if they were still alive somewhere.
Exile. Take Edward and go to Jobs. It would be humiliating, but 2Face could work with Jobs and MoSteel. Even that Jane, Miss Blake.
No other way.
But how? Which way? Not through that little door, that was for sure. The only way was out onto the ramp.
She got up and found Edward. Edward, we have to go.
Where?
Were going to find your brother. Sebastian?
2Face frowned. Sebastian? Oh, is that Jobss birth name?
Yeah. His name is Sebastian. Only sometimes people call him Jobs.
A good name to change, 2Face muttered. Okay, look, I need you to do something first, before we can go. You know that thing where you kind of make yourself look like whatever is around you?
Edward stared blankly. What?
That chameleon thing. You kind of blend in. I need you to do that because we have to take the spear that Ms. Lefkowitz-Blake has, okay? See the spear? The long, pointy thing leaning against the wall by her?
Edward rolled his eyes. I know what a spear is, 2Face. But what were you saying about chameleons?
Edward, sometimes you seem to kind of change a little and look like the stuff around you. Didnt you know? Your skin and even your clothes and all will kind of look like the walls or whatever is near.
Edward looked down at himself, searching for some evidence of this. He found a gray line that ran up his arm. He touched the line and looked up at 2Face in wonder. Its like the line between the stones.
2Face nodded. Yes, it is.
How did this happen?
He looked as if he might start crying. 2Face took his hand and held it. Hey, look, its not a bad thing. I mean. . . hey, dont you ever watch cartoons or whatever about superheroes? Spider-Man? This is like a superpower you have.
Edward looked unsure, teetering on the edge between crying or embracing this new idea. His eyes went shrewd. A superpower?
Yeah. 2Face nodded and winked.
The Chameleon, Edward said, trying out the name.
Whatever. Get the spear. We need some kind of weapon. Meet me just outside the archway. Im going to grab one of those meat pies. We need to move fast.
Edward headed toward the spear, stopped, looked back, saw 2Faces encouraging smile, and opted to creep along the wall.
Not a true chameleon, 2Face thought. Not yet, anyway. He still looked like the boy he was; he didnt look like the wall. It was just that his skin color changed somehow. He blended in. It was like a soldier in camouflage the camouflage didnt make you look like a bush, but it made it hard for the human eye to pick you out.
Edward was helped by the fact that Wylson had decided to call yet another meeting of her board of directors, or whatever she called it. The adults plus Yago.
2Face saw her father, head bowed under the weight of his grief, join the group. His every physical movement broadcast the fact that he would make no trouble for anyone, that he was lost in his own world.
2Face was furious with him. But at the same time, the prospect of setting out alone in this terrifying place, maybe never seeing him again, was daunting. Shed lost too much to want to lose any more.
Edward was standing by the arch, spear in hand. 2Face herself had lost sight of him at some point.
She shook herself, tried to push away the intruding edge of self-pity, and went to Edward.
No one cried out to stop them as they stepped, alone, onto the ramp.
Up or down, left or right? 2Face wondered.
To the right, downhill, were the remains of the slaughtered Riders.
Up it is.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN BACK TO THE SHIP.
2Face and Edward walked up the ramp. The world was dark, stars were few, and the moon was nowhere in sight. But the ramp, the very ground under their feet, seemed to glow enough to remain visible.
At any moment a troop of Riders might loom up in front of them and then, 2Face knew, it would all be over very quickly. She was not Tamara. She could not fight and win, despite the comforting heft of the spear in her hand.
She looked back from time to time, half expecting pursuit. Yago would be furious: Hed be deprived of his intended victims.