Alight_ Book Two of the Generat - Scott Sigler Page 0,132
city livable. He works even harder than I do, and—like Barkah—has little time for jokes.
We’re about to enter when Okereke, Johnson and a young circle named Mehmet walk out. They are covered in mud and greasy char. They stink of dirt and some kind of mineral scent I can’t place. They are laughing and excited.
“You’re filthy,” I say to Okereke. “What have you three been up to in there?”
“Helping Spingate,” he says. “And Zubiri.”
“Helping with what?”
He shakes his head, all smiles. “She made us promise not to say anything until she talked to you first. But it’s really amazing.”
Borjigin’s fingers drum impatiently on the messageboard.
“Fine,” I say. “Borjigin, lead the way.”
The hallway we used to flee the fire is now illuminated by a glowing ceiling rather than torchlight. The floor is swept clean, the stone walls are spotless.
The long walk brings us to the room where Coyotl’s mind was erased, where Old Dr. Smith burned to death, where Springers died, where I shot Old Bishop and stabbed O’Malley. I wish we could center things elsewhere, but Spingate and Gaston both insist this room was designed to be the hub of all the Observatory’s abilities.
While I will never recover from those memories, the room looks completely different. The golden coffins have been moved elsewhere in the building, and modified by Smith and Pokano to become sources of health and healing rather than destruction. The burned ceiling was scraped away, painted white, all the lights repaired. We covered up that horrible mural. We found a storeroom with replacement pedestals; a half-dozen of them adorn a rebuilt platform, and a dozen more are set up in the space the coffins once occupied.
Despite all the cleaning and painting, this place still smells faintly of smoke and scorched flesh. Every time I come in, I look at the spot where O’Malley died.
Springers and kids alike study at the floor pedestals. Some are learning math and science, some are helping develop Borjigin’s plan for the city.
Spingate, Gaston and Zubiri are standing on the platform. Spingate’s belly is curved with the life growing inside of her. She walks funny now, has to in order to balance the weight—Smith says the baby is overdue.
Gaston has grown something, too: a beard. It is thick and black, and it annoys Bishop. As big as Bishop is, all he can manage is a thin blond scraggle. Gaston is fond of saying that facial hair defines being “manly,” and will continue to say so until it stops enraging Bishop.
And then there is Zubiri.
Most of her face has been repaired. Smith is still working on replacing her missing teeth. Five of them are in and set, three more to go. I’m told that after the next operation, Zubiri should have her smile back. The one thing she can never have back, though, is her left arm.
She lost it in the battle. It was torn off in the spider crash, severed just above her elbow. Smith could do nothing for that. Coffins can do miracles on skin and bone, fixing up that which is damaged, but regrowing body parts is beyond the technology’s abilities.
Spingate looks up from her work. She sees Muller, smiles.
“Grandmaster Zubiri,” she says, “can you go to the shuttle and bring me back the bracer from storage? And Em, I need Zubiri back here sooner rather than later—would you mind if Victor gives her a ride?”
Zubiri and Muller—I correct myself, Victor—stare at each other. I’m not sure they even remember I’m here.
“I don’t mind at all,” I say. “Just don’t be gone all day.”
“We won’t,” the two of them say in unison, and they rush out of the room before we can change our minds.
We’ve learned that Zubiri is brilliant. Genius is the word Spingate uses to describe her. Perhaps someday soon Zubiri will lead these research efforts instead of Spingate, but the girl’s mind isn’t always on her work. Maybe if she hadn’t had her arm ripped off and her face smashed so hard she needed eleven reconstructive surgeries, maybe if she didn’t wake up every night screaming in horror as she relives that moment, then she could concentrate more.
And, of course, maybe if she wasn’t in love with a boy.
Gaston is staring at an image of stars hovering above a pedestal. He waves us to join him.
I step onto the platform. It’s wide enough that Barkah and Lahfah can come up with me. Borjigin stays on the floor, looking at his messageboard and talking to D’souza.