Alight_ Book Two of the Generat - Scott Sigler Page 0,70

the first people to set foot on Omeyocan, I thought it was wrong. It wasn’t. We’ve searched hundreds of buildings and found nothing. No Grownups, no bones, no sign of anyone ever having been here before us.

The machines built Omeyocan. Matilda and her kind have never come down.

That means the Observatory was telling the truth. It is a place—the only place—where we can get actual answers. Was it also telling the truth about Matilda? Was her rebellion made of murder, or did her actions actually save lives?

My knees give out: only the spear keeps me standing.

Bishop cups my elbow. “Em, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say. It’s a lie. He knows it. My shoulder is killing me. If I don’t get to the shuttle soon, Bishop will have to carry me yet again.

“We’re leaving,” I say. “We still have hours of walking before we reach the landing pad.”

Borjigin shakes his head. “Give me a few minutes. I’m guessing the spiders are programmed to come back here after a fight.”

“So what?” Bishop’s words are a growl. “Em needs Doctor Smith. The sooner the better.”

I would have expected Borjigin to shrink away from Bishop, but the boy stands tall.

“I think I can give the spiders new orders,” he says. “I need a few minutes, and Coyotl’s help. The spiders can get us to the shuttle faster than if we’re on foot.”

Borjigin is nothing like the stammering coward he was in the jungle. He’s confident, believes in what he says.

“Make it quick,” I say.

Coyotl and Borjigin run to their spider and get to work.

Bishop wants to disagree, but we’re back in the city, and I hold the spear—it’s my turn to give the orders again, and I’d much rather ride instead of walk.

Smith said I had a “flesh wound.” Nothing serious, at least according to her. I was in her coffin only long enough to make sure the bleeding had stopped, long enough for Spingate and Gaston to take a quick look at what we brought back. There isn’t time for anything more right now—decisions have to be made.

My people are once again packed in the coffin room on Deck One. I stand on the makeshift stage with Gaston and Spingate, who each have something important to say when I am finished. So many emotions on the faces that look back at me, a mixture of pride, disgust, respect and doubt, of love, fear and anguish. We are too many to all think the same way.

I tell my people what happened. The snake-wolf, the Springers, our run through the jungle, the spiders, the “nest” that must have come from the Xolotl, and—of course—Visca.

Many of the younger kids are crying. This is their first experience with death. Even if they weren’t close to Visca, they knew who he was, and they know he is never coming back.

The young circle-stars don’t cry, though. They now wear black coveralls and hold weapons of their own: axes, machetes, shovels, hammers…one girl even holds a pitchfork. While Bishop and I were gone, Farrar was getting them ready.

Good: when we fight the Springers again, we will need everyone.

After I finish, Gaston explains how the Springer guns work. He says they are muskets, primitive versions of the Grownups’ bracelets. The fabric that goes into the barrel is an explosive material. When it ignites, the barrel channels the explosion, drives a metal ball out fast enough to kill. Maybe it is “primitive” in Gaston’s opinion, but it makes our weapons look worthless in comparison.

“Em and the others brought back five muskets,” he says. “Each one is handmade. The parts aren’t really interchangeable, which is strange to me. Maybe they don’t have factories that can mass-produce these. There is enough ammunition to fire each musket seven times. Beckett and I think we can use the shuttle to make more ammunition. Maybe even more muskets, but we’re not sure yet.”

Gaston steps back, his lecture finished. The people look terrified, and I don’t blame them—there are monsters in the jungle that can kill us before we can even see them.

Spingate holds up the bashed purple fruit. She trembles with excitement.

“We tested it on the contaminated food,” she says. “The juice of this fruit kills the red mold.”

A roaring cheer rips the air. People grab at each other, unable to contain their joy. Gaston hugs Spingate, squeezes her and slaps her on the back so hard she winces and laughs.

If we can find enough fruit, we have an entire warehouse of food—years’ worth, enough