The Drowned Cities by Paolo Bacigalupi Page A

scooped his hand through the pooled blood and shoved his dripping hand hard into her face, smearing. “When we bleed,” Soa said, “you say thank you.”
    Mahlia fought not to flinch, but it was impossible and Soa didn’t stop. Just kept smearing. “You like that, girl? You like that? You too good for our blood, huh, peacekeeper? You too good?”
    “That’s enough, soldier.”
    To Mahlia’s surprise, Soa broke off. She blinked blood from her eyes.
    From his sickbed, Sergeant Ocho was waving Soa away. “Don’t let the war maggot rile you, soldier.”
    “I ain’t riled, I’m just teaching her a lesson.”
    The sergeant’s voice was dryly amused, but still it carried authority as he said, “I think she gets it.”
    Soa looked like he was about to protest, but then he looked at Mahlia and made a face of disgust. “Well, she gets it now.”
    “That’s right, Private. She gets it.” Sergeant Ocho waved him on. “Now go ask Gutty when that goat’s going to be cooked. Smells good.”
    And to Mahlia’s surprise, Soa actually backed off. With a final jerk to her hair, he set her loose and headed toward the fire.
    Ocho watched him go, then nodded at Mahlia. “Get yourself cleaned up, and then get our dead clean, too. Theyneed last rites.” He looked at her seriously. “And keep your thoughts off your face. Soa’s dying for an excuse to cut you. I ain’t going to save your ass twice.”
    Mahlia stared at the sergeant, trying to figure him out. He wasn’t human, but he also wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t hungry for blood, not like Soa or the lieutenant, but that didn’t make him nice, either.
    She got a new bucket of water and cleaned herself up as best she could before setting to work on the dead boys, swabbing off their bodies and arranging bloody torn garments. She arranged one of the boys so his broken neck wasn’t so twisted. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old. One of those cannon-fodder licebiters who got swept up in recruiting drives, and who they shoved out in front to draw fire. Bullet bait. Not even really a recruit yet. Only the first three horizontal bars of Glenn Stern’s mark branded on his cheek.
    “Half-bar,” Ocho said. “They die faster.”
    Mahlia glanced over at the soldier where he lay. “Not like you.”
    Gold-flecked eyes studied her, unblinking. “Got to learn quick if you want to stay alive. Drowned Cities eats stupid for breakfast.” He straightened, pushing himself up in bed, wincing. “ ’Spect you know that, though. I ain’t seen a castoff in more than a year. Last time I saw a girl like you, LT had her head on a stick.”
    “That what you’re going to do to me, after I heal you up? Put my head on a stick?”
    Ocho shrugged. “Ask the LT.”
    “You always do what the LT says?”
    “That’s how it works. I do what LT orders. My boys do what I order.” He nodded at the dead boy that Mahlia was cleaning. “Right down the line to half-bars.”
    “Looks like that worked out real good for him.”
    “Hell, we’re all bullet bait sooner or later. Doubt it makes much difference. You make it to sixteen, you’re a goddamn legend.” Ocho paused, then said, “If the LT decides to put you down, I’ll make sure it’s quick.” He jerked his head toward the fire where Soa was carving meat off the goat’s roasting form. “I won’t let Soa near you.”
    “Is that how you make friends? By promising not to torture them before you kill them?”
    Ocho’s scarred face suddenly broke into a grin. “Damn. You’re pushy for a castoff.”
    “I ain’t castoff. I’m Drowned Cities.”
    He laughed. “That don’t mean you ain’t pushy.”
    It was almost like he was human. Like he didn’t have a dozen kill scars hacked into his bicep. He could have been anyone.
    A crash resounded from the fire pit. Mahlia jumped at the noise. She spun to see a cooking pot lying on its side, rice spilled across concrete. One of the soldiers, a skinny boy with ears that had been cut