Alight_ Book Two of the Generat - Scott Sigler Page 0,76

in front. The rectangle looks thick, heavy, with lines and swirls of a language I don’t recognize.

The Springer leans back. Its gun butt comes up so fast I barely see movement before the wood cracks into my chin. I stumble, the world spins.

Spingate reaches for me. “Em, don’t fight back!”

I hear a thonk, like a rock thrown against a hollow tree. Spingate falls face-first in the trail’s thin mud. I get to my hands and knees, try to rise, to fight, but pain explodes in my back as the gun butt slams into me again. I fall to my belly.

I roll left twice, fast, creating space between me and the Springer. I pop up on my feet.

Purple stands between me and my spear. Before the Springer can even aim its musket, I rush forward, kick up and out as hard as I can—the toe of my boot catches the big, frowny jaw. Three eyes wince in pain. It hops backward, trying to aim the gun at me, but I rush forward, duck under the barrel.

I reach for the knife hanging from its belt.

A hammer blow to my left temple. I fall to my knees. Something cracks against my right cheek. The other Springers, they rushed in while I grabbed for the knife.

Blackness comes in waves. I taste blood. I tuck into a ball, knees to chest, hands over ears, elbows tight in front of me. Musket butts hammer down, striking my shoulders, my knees, my shins, my back, the top of my head. So many hits, so fast—I’ve never hurt so bad in my life.

Yes you have…yes you have…you can’t remember because you don’t WANT to remember…

I think of my Grampa. I think of the canoe.

The beating stops. The echoes of each blow radiate across my body, waves of pain overlapping. I hear myself crying.

A growl, a chirp.

I open one eye. Spingate is on the ground next to me, tucked into a muddy ball. Sobs rack her body. I look up. Purple is holding a piece of fabric toward me. I roll onto my back, coughing, blood bubbling from my nose. The Springer stands over me, green eyes glaring down.

“Ponalla,” it says. The syllables don’t sound all that different from ones we would make. What does this word mean?

“Ponalla,” it says again, shaking the piece of fabric at me, insisting I take it.

I do. Rain soaks the cloth. It’s a drawing of a Springer. An excellent drawing, full of detail. And it…wait. Something about that face. I recognize it—it’s the Springer I ran through with the spear.

Purple stares at me. Those green eyes, so much like ours. I imagine I can read emotion in them. Hate, but also anguish. Sadness. Loss.

What have I done?

“Your friend,” I say quietly. I hold up the wet fabric, offering it back. “Ponalla…your friend.”

Ponalla was trying to kill me. Then it was just some evil thing that I had to destroy. Now, it has a name. It has a friend, heartbroken that it’s gone. In that way, it was no different from us.

I killed it.

And I didn’t have to. I could have run.

“I’m so sorry.” I know Purple can’t understand me, but the words come out anyway. “We were attacked, and it was confusing and I was mad, and…I’m so sorry.”

The green eyes watch me. Rage and loss recede briefly, replaced by confusion. Purple looks at the limp fabric in its two-fingered hand, then stuffs the drawing into its bag.

Spingate moans.

“Stay still,” I say. “We’re in trouble.”

She slowly lifts her head. Blood and mud sheet her face like a dark mask.

Purple takes a single hop back, raises the musket, points it right between my eyes. I’m staring into a circle of blackness, knowing it will be the last thing I ever see.

The other three Springers hop over, raise their weapons. The four of them stand side by side. They are going to execute us.

Time slows. The smell of the wet jungle in my nose. The feel of damp air in my lungs. Perfection. The sky, red sun blocked by clouds. The rain on my face. The taste of my own blood—everything is so wonderful. How could I not have savored these things every second I lived? Even the Springers are beautiful in their own way. Sights, scents, sounds…

Wait…I only hear the rain.

The jungle makes no noise.

Behind the Springers, something silently rises up. Something dirty-yellow…

A snake-trunk snaps forward. Pincers drive deep into the far-left Springer. It screams, a wet sound of shock and surprise as bluish