makes no sense. I look at O’Malley. He doesn’t understand, either. Of course there were people here before us—this city didn’t build itself.
“The rebellion,” Spingate says to the ceiling. “The slaughter on the Xolotl”—she turns her head to stare at me, her gaze malevolent—“why were those people murdered?”
I freeze. They died because Matilda led an uprising, but only O’Malley and I know she was a slave, that all the circles are slaves. I should have told everyone right away, I knew it. Now it’s going to come out.
O’Malley is staring at Spingate, mouth hanging open. His eyes flick to me, and all he does is blink—the whisperer has no idea what to do now.
“I have limited information on the Xolotl,” Ometeotl says. “Empress Savage’s valiant efforts stopped a horrible slaughter. She led a rebellion that saved thousands of lives, then she took control of the Xolotl and created Uchmal.”
The answer leaves Spingate speechless; that wasn’t what she was expecting. I’m at a loss for words, too, but for different reasons—was my creator actually protecting people?
I shake my head, try to focus. Even if Matilda was protecting people, it doesn’t justify the carvings on the Observatory walls, and it doesn’t come close to justifying the slaughter up on the Xolotl. We saw dead circles, not dead halves and gears.
Wait…we’re being told this story by the same source that says we are the first ones here, ever, when we are standing in a building it must have taken thousands of people to create.
And then it hits me, a knife through my heart. Ometeotl just said that Matilda created this city. If that’s true, then she created this building—which means she created Ometeotl.
My father’s voice, echoing: History is written by the victors. The “history” I’m hearing now…was that written about Matilda, or by her?
Frustration claws at me. I can’t trust anything Ometeotl says. This computer, or whatever it is, it lies. Everyone lies. This place held our only hope to find out the truth, and now that hope is gone.
More goosebumps; that odd feeling returns, and I suddenly know what it is—I feel like I’m being watched.
Visca’s focus snaps to a shadowy corner, then another. He feels it, too.
“Something’s wrong,” he says.
Bishop’s brow furrows as if he agrees but he can’t define why.
I smell something, a faint wisp that seems familiar.
The slightest rattle of plastic: five flashlight beams sweep to the racks. The same bins, clearly empty, but one is rocking, just a little.
Something is down here with us, something lurking in the deep shadows. The bin stops rocking—beams dance across the racks, but there is no movement to be seen.
The smell connects: burned toast, the same thing I smelled at the fire pit, and at the tunnel beneath the wall. We’re not alone—the people from the jungle are here.
I hesitate. We can confront them, but they could be violent and Spingate is with us. If anything happens to her, we have no hope of beating the mold. Attack, attack, always attack. My father’s voice again, but this time he’s wrong. We don’t know how many enemies we face…and we don’t know what weapons they have.
“Bishop,” I say, keeping my voice low, “get us out of here.”
He moves halfway to the racks, putting himself between us and the unknown danger. He crouches, axe in one hand, flashlight in the other.
Visca at my side, his voice calm but insistent: “Em, get in the elevator.”
I do as I’m told, watching the shadows all the way, waiting for someone to come rushing out of them. I enter the elevator as quietly as I can. Aramovsky, O’Malley and Spingate follow. I can feel their fear.
Visca silently walks up to Bishop, taps his big shoulder. Without either of them looking away from the racks, they walk backward right into the elevator.
Bishop shuts the door.
The cage rises.
“All I saw was that bin,” Spingate says. “Did anyone see anything else move?”
“I didn’t,” Bishop says. “But it seems like this cage is the only way in and out.” He glances up. “Whoever was down there, if they weren’t alone, they could have friends waiting for us to step out—everyone be ready to fight. We need to stay together, get off this building and then back to the shuttle as fast as we can.”
Aramovsky shakes his head. “We can’t leave. We have to go back down, finally learn who we are. This building, this temple…we need to bring everyone here. We need to live here.”
Live in a building covered in images of