Alight_ Book Two of the Generat - Scott Sigler Page 0,6

says.

Streets seems like a strange term for what we see: wide, straight spaces between the buildings and pyramids, but those spaces are so choked with vines they look like the flat bottom of steep valleys instead of a place where people might walk.

“Abandoned,” Farrar says. “Where are the people who made all this?”

Coyotl turns, looks behind us. The thighbone slips from his hands, thumps on the vines and rolls down the inner slope.

I turn, and am just as stunned. The shuttle lies before us, sitting on its bed of yellow leaves in the middle of the vine ring. Beyond the shuttle, towering buildings block a view of the city—far beyond those buildings is a pyramid so massive the sky itself seems to balance on its point. All the buildings are covered in yellow, but not the tip of this pyramid, which is an orange-brown.

“I don’t like this,” Farrar says. “Should we go back to the shuttle?”

A loud growl answers him. We all look to Bawden—the sound came from her belly.

She shrugs. “I’m hungry.”

So am I. We all are. There is so much to explore here it might take us a lifetime. Don’t rush anything, O’Malley said. We have to carefully think about what we should do next. This place appears abandoned, but I have been alive long enough to know that things are not always as they seem.

We return to the shuttle, which gleams beneath the hot sun. I can’t believe I once thought of the shuttle as large. Nestled in this sprawling city, it is nothing but a toy.

We enter to the sound of laughter and excitement. So many happy voices—music to my ears. Everyone is awake, older kids and twelve-year-olds alike. Some are alert, others are still groggy from the gas.

I have Spingate seal the doors behind us.

In the coffin room, Gaston and Okereke hold green bins, from which they are passing out white food packages. Okereke is a circle, like me, short and thick with muscle. He has the darkest skin of any of us, almost as black as that of the monsters.

Bishop takes the bin from Gaston and pats him on the back. Gaston looks to me for the next job. I tilt my head toward the pilothouse.

“You and Spingate get some sleep,” I say. “We’ll all stay here until you’re rested. I need your input to figure out what we do next.”

He grabs a handful of packages from the bin, then he and Spingate stumble their way to the pilothouse and shut the door behind them.

I walk toward my coffin. It’s not my coffin, not like before, because none of these have our names engraved on them. It’s the one I came down in, though, and it seems like the only space in this crowded room that belongs to me.

Everyone gives me smiles. They hug me, give my shoulder a squeeze, pat me on the back. They are happy to be alive, excited to explore their new world.

I lay my spear down in my coffin’s white padded fabric, sit cross-legged on the black floor.

So many people in this red-walled coffin room. Not counting Gaston and Spingate, there are seventeen of us with full-grown bodies. And then the kids—108 of them. They are everywhere, mostly clean shirts and skirts or pants, red ties still on. They are laughing, eating, playing, sometimes running around madly until someone my age snaps at them to calm down.

My age? That’s a funny concept. Am I an “adult”? In body, I suppose, but big or small, we are all twelve years old. We are the Birthday Children. At most, I am a few days older than the smaller kids, not a few years.

Bishop strides toward me, a green bin under his big arm. His subtle movements carry him over and around people without jostling a one.

He tilts the bin down to me.

“The food is good, Em. Grab some.”

I reach in, take a handful, read the black letters: PROTEIN BAR, HARD BISCUIT and GRAIN BAR.

All I’ve ever eaten was fruit and some pig, and not much of either. I tear open the grain bar’s wrapper—inside is what looks like a thin brown brick. I take a bite. The material crumbles between my teeth, and a new flavor explodes across my tongue. I’ve never tasted this, but I know the right word—it tastes nutty.

“Everyone, stop eating!”

It’s Aramovsky. He’s standing on a closed coffin, arms outstretched. All heads turn to look up at him.

“We must give thanks for this food,” he says. His voice