Paolo Bacigalupi - The Drowned Cities

She stumbled away, gasping, her hand on her throat. Air felt like fire as it sawed in and out.

The soldiers caught her and shoved her back toward where Sergeant Ocho lay. Mahlia fell to her knees beside the wounded boy.

Behind her, she heard the lieutenant say, “Dig in, boys. Get that perimeter secure. We’ll be here awhile.”

No.

INFECTION RAGED THROUGH Tool’s body like an invading army. Delirium hazed his vision. Darkness had overtaken the swamps. Cricket chirps and the high whine of mosquitoes filled the night.

Tool cracked his one good eye, observing the red-haired boy. Moonlight outlined his skinny form as he pried up a sharp stone the size of an egg.

Tool almost smiled. Human children were always the same. Ribs and hollows sewn together by the barest coverings of flesh. Scarecrows, begging to be torn apart and scattered to the wind, like grass dolls.

It didn’t matter what continent he fought on; it was always the same. This one hopped about like a pale, freckled grasshopper, checking every rock in the hopes of finding one that would bash in Tool’s head, but he was the same as all the rest.

“I know what you are planning, boy.”

The child looked up at Tool, gray-blue eyes glinting like glass shards, then went back to feeling the rocks along the banks, testing each one, reaching as far as Tool’s long arm would let him stretch.

“How come you don’t stop me, then?” the boy asked.

“Soon enough.”

“Mahlia’s coming back.”

Tool snorted. “Your sister has been gone for hours. And now you are searching for a weapon. I think we are past any illusions about your sister coming back.”

“She ain’t my sister.”

“You are both human. She is your sister.”

“That make you a dog, then?”

Tool growled at the taunt. He tried to sit up, but it was too tiring. The mud he had piled against his wounds to staunch the bleeding cracked as he moved. He was surprised to see that it had dried. Time was passing even faster than he had thought.

He lay back, breathing heavily. Best to save his energy.

It was foolish to think that there was anything left to save energy for, but it was his nature. He had been designed too well. Even now, finished and broken, surrounded by hostile humanity, he sought survival. Nature always struggled on, even when hope was gone.

The boy tested Tool’s grip again.

“Do not try me, boy.”

“You could let me go. I could go get the meds for you.”

Tool almost laughed at that. “I think one betrayal is enough.”

The boy bristled. “What do you know? You’re just a dog-face.”

“Also tiger and hyena and man.” Tool stared at him. “Which of those do you think is the oath breaker, boy?”

“My name’s Mouse. I already told you that.”

“Name yourself or not. You are all the same to me.”

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

Tool made a face, disgusted that the human child could insist that Tool was somehow wrong. “Do not blame me for your sister’s betrayal.”

“She ain’t the one who’s gonna kill me.”

The conversation was all just a distraction. The boy’s hand was out again, worming about in the mud, still seeking a weapon, perhaps hoping he would locate the lost machete. Tool could respect that. He, too, fought to survive.

“I kill because it is my nature,” Tool said. “Just as it is yours.”

“I kill for food.”

Tool bared his teeth. “I, too, eat what I kill.”

The boy’s eyes went wide at that, and if Tool hadn’t been so exhausted and racked with pain, he would have laughed.

MOTHS FLUTTERED AND DROWNED in sticky pools of spilled blood. Mahlia swept a dirty rag through the mess, sopping it up and wringing it out in a rusty iron bucket beside her. As she bent to scrub again, she stole a quick glance at the soldiers, trying to get a bead on them, then ducked her head to her work.

Soa, this time. Watching her from beside the campfire. Thoughtful predatory interest, like being watched by a coywolv.

She didn’t like his eyes on her, but when it wasn’t him, it was always another. Slim or Gutty or Ocho or one of the other hard-faced boys, as if through some unspoken communication they passed their close attention from one to the next.

No way she could escape with their eyes all over her. She mopped more blood and fought the urge to scream. Mouse was out there in the swamp with that dog-face, and she was stuck here, like a rabbit in a trap.

What would Mouse do in this situation? Would he just be crazy enough to run for it? But she needed to collect meds first. Needed to get away clean. And if she ran, what would happen to the doctor?

There was no way she could just bolt, even if they stopped watching her so closely. It was an impossible trap, with no good solution. Mahlia started scrubbing again, ramming her frustration into the work.

Boot steps, coming close. Mahlia’s skin prickled, but she didn’t look up. The boots stopped right in front of her, standing in the blood, blocking her work. Soa. She was sure of it.

She steeled herself and looked up.

He stood over her, smiling slightly. “You got a problem cleaning up our blood? Think you’re too good or something?”

Mahlia shook her head.

“You sure? ’Cause I saw you making a face.” Soa knelt down and ran his fingers through the blood, lifting them up in front of her face. “You think you’re too good to clean up the blood of patriots?”

He reached out and slowly ran his fingers down her cheek, smearing her. “Think you’re too good for us?” he asked. “Think we’re just animals? That’s what you peacekeepers always used to say, right? Called us animals? Called us dogs?” He dipped his fingers in the blood again and touched her forehead. Stroking her with wet fingertips.

Mahlia struggled not to flinch at the soldier boy’s touch. It was what Soa wanted. He wanted her to act disgusted. Wanted her to act like she was above them. And if she did, she knew he’d kill her. Kill her for spite.

Soa didn’t even have a soul. He was just a snake looking for an excuse to bite.

“I don’t want to fight,” Mahlia said. “You want me to clean, I’ll clean. I don’t want to fight.”

“Don’t want to fight.” Soa laughed. “More of that peacekeeper talk.” He dipped his fingers in blood again, marked her other cheek. Gave her a sharp shove, almost a slap. “Got a surrender slogan for me? One of those peacekeeper sayings? ‘An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind?’ Some shit like that?”

Behind Mahlia, someone sniggered. Others were watching. All of them waiting to see what Soa would do next.

“Well?” Soa asked. “You got a surrender slogan? I’m waiting.”

She knew what he was referring to. When she was little, the slogans were everywhere, painted on the walls of the city. The peacekeepers paid local people to put them up, trying to buy some goodwill and make people think about how they’d gotten themselves into the mess they were in, but the pictures and sayings always ended up getting scrawled with militia and warlord battle flags, and eventually the peacekeepers gave up.

Mahlia cleared her throat, hunting for one that wouldn’t set Soa off.

“‘Disarm to farm’?”

“That a question?”

Mahlia shook her head. “‘Disarm to farm,’ ” she repeated. A statement this time.

Soa grinned, wild eyes. “Oh yeah. I remember that one. That was a good one. All those peacekeeper soldiers giving rice and corn and soybeans if you’d just turn in a gun. I traded them an old .22 for a sack of rice I was supposed to go out and plant. Firing pin was all rusted out, and you suckers still paid.”