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 t
he 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."
"Like an orphanage."
"Better than that. A place where smart kids go. Special kids."
"How do I contact you?"