Alight_ Book Two of the Generat - Scott Sigler Page 0,84
fixed it. Gaston helped a little, so did Beckett, but mostly it was Borjigin.”
It never occurred to me that we could repair the old machines. Can Borjigin fix any of the rusty ones in the nest?
The spider sprints down the nighttime street. If not for the rhythmic clack of metal feet on stone, I wouldn’t hear anything save for the wind whipping across my face. In minutes, we’re back at the landing pad.
A spider stands on either side of the shuttle ramp. Farrar is atop one, Bawden the other. Both of them have muskets slung over their shoulders. Borjigin is next to Bawden, doing something with the tube mounted there. Is he trying to fix the cannon?
In front of the ramp stand twenty young circle-stars, lined up in four rows of five. They wear black coveralls and boots. The shuttle’s lights glint off the metallic thread of their Mictlan patches. Three of them hold muskets. The others hold tools, tools they will use as weapons.
Bishop is walking up and down the rows. I can’t hear what he’s saying. From the frightened and serious expressions on the faces of those kids, I assume he’s preparing them to fight.
Twelve-year-old warriors. They were bred for this, yet they don’t look like real soldiers. They look like dolls dressed up for war—only this time it wasn’t the Grownups who chose the outfits, it was us.
Smith runs down the ramp, two little circle-crosses—one boy, one girl—right behind her. Spingate gets down off the spider first, then she and Smith help me descend. My hand doesn’t seem to work anymore.
Smith takes my wrist, gently but firmly.
“This is bad,” she says. “We need to get you in medical right away.”
“No time,” I say, even though all I want to do is crawl into that coffin and go to sleep, wake up feeling no pain. “Can you fix my fingers here?”
She looks at me like I’m stupid, then catches herself and again studies my hand.
“Pokano, go to medical,” she says without looking up. “Find finger splints.”
The little boy runs off. The girl circle-cross hovers nearby, waiting to be told what to do.
Smith turns to Spingate, sees the stitches on her forehead.
“You fought?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Spingate says.
“Were you hurt? Did you get hit anywhere else?”
Smith reaches for Spingate’s belly. Spingate brushes her hands away.
“I’m fine,” Spingate says. She points up to the spider. “We have Visca’s body.”
Smith glances at me. Maybe a touch of respect in those eyes.
“Yilmaz, go to Deck Four,” she says. “Prepare a coffin for corpse storage. That will arrest the decomposition process until we can arrange a proper burial.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the little girl says, then sprints for the shuttle. She already knows how to work the coffins? I’ve been away from the shuttle too much. I realize I didn’t know her name—or the boy circle-cross’s name, for that matter—until this moment.
Smith calls up to Coyotl. “Do you need help bringing Visca down?”
“He’s heavy,” Coyotl says. “Send some circles out to help me.”
I leave them to take care of Visca. Spingate heads into the shuttle. I walk to Bishop. He suddenly stands stiff, at attention.
“Two spiders and twenty-one infantry ready to march,” he says, barking out the words. “We need to find the invaders and kill them before they can mount an attack on the shuttle.”
Some of the little circle-stars stare straight ahead, a few watch Bishop, and the rest look at me. Some are ready to fight. Some are trying to hide their fear. If we march them out, I wonder how many of them will suffer the Grownups’ bracelets, will be blasted into pieces like El-Saffani.
“Wait here,” I tell Bishop. “Do not march until I get back.”
He nods once.
I walk up the ramp, enter to confusion, to panic. O’Malley is in the coffin room, trying to calm hundreds of upset children. Aramovsky is doing the same. For once, the two of them are working together.
People see me and start shouting suggestions: everything from abandon the city and flee into the jungle to fly back to the Xolotl and beg the Grownups to forgive us.
I ignore these cowardly ideas and push through the crowd. O’Malley looks immensely relieved to see me. I pull him aside.
“Bishop wants to attack,” I say.
O’Malley nods. “Of course he does. It’s all he knows.”
“You don’t think we should?”
The words are out of my mouth before I realize why I’m asking him; for all of my issues with O’Malley, I instinctively seek his counsel.