Alight_ Book Two of the Generat - Scott Sigler Page 0,85

we should attack, but not yet. We need to know exactly what came down. How many people? What do they want? Could be Grownup circle-stars come to wipe us out and recover the shuttle, or just Matilda, here to convince you to join her. What if it’s Brewer? And what if the ship isn’t even from the Xolotl?”

“Of course it is,” I snap. “Where else could it be from?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. We don’t know anything yet, and that’s my point. To use Bishop’s favorite word, we need to reconnoiter before we march our people into danger.”

I look at the people packed into the coffin room. Many are crying. Aramovsky is telling them to stay calm, that the gods will protect them.

O’Malley leans in close to do that thing I now despise, to whisper.

“Tell everyone you’re going to find out what’s going on,” he says. “People are panicking. They need to know someone is doing something, even if you don’t know what that something is yet.”

His hot breath on my ear, on my neck. Shivers ripple across my skin. I’m surprised and disgusted with myself—how can my body react to him at a time like this?

“Go get Bishop,” I say. “And his little circle-stars. Tell Bawden and Farrar to stay on their spiders as lookouts.”

O’Malley slides through the crowd. Moments later, Bishop and his “soldiers” filter in, find places among the scared, crying, noisy kids.

My broken fingers scream at me. With my good hand, I whip my spear against a coffin three times, bam-bam-bam.

“Shut your godsdamned mouths!”

Silence. All eyes look to me.

There is no point in pretending we’re not in trouble. As quickly as I can, I tell them about Barkah and the Springers, how there is real hope we can communicate and find a cure for the red mold, but right now we need to deal with the most dangerous problem first.

“A ship came down,” I say. “We don’t know how many people were in it. If we march out blindly, we leave the shuttle less protected. Bishop, myself and a few more will go find where the ship landed. No one else leaves the landing pad. While I’m gone”—I stare straight at Aramovsky—“O’Malley is in charge.”

Aramovsky nods. “You’re leaving Spingate here this time, aren’t you?”

I scan the crowd, see her in back. She and Gaston are holding each other. She stares at Aramovsky, suspicious he mentioned her name.

There’s no need to put her in danger again. I shouldn’t even go myself, but I can’t wait for people to report back to me—I need to know, and I need to know now.

“Correct,” I say. “Spingate stays here.”

Aramovsky smiles, spreads his arms, turns as he talks. “A wise choice,” he says, to everyone rather than just to me. “Because now we’re not just fighting for our own lives, we’re fighting for those that come after us.”

Spingate’s eyes go wide. She shakes her head, silently imploring Aramovsky to stop talking.

He doesn’t.

“We must congratulate Spingate, and Gaston as well”—Gaston rushes toward Aramovsky, pushing past people, stumbling over kids—“because she is pregnant.”

A hush falls over the coffin room.

Gaston stops cold, just a few steps from Aramovsky.

All eyes turn to Spingate.

She sees Smith standing by the shuttle door, points at her. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Smith is clearly rattled. She glances from Spingate to Aramovsky, shaking her head at him as if to say, How could you?

Spingate gathers herself. She stands straight and tall. Despite her bruised face, the angry line of stitches on her forehead, her muddy, filthy hair, she is confident and proud—she has never looked more impressive.

“It’s true,” she says. “When Doctor Smith fixed my elbow, the med-chamber scanned me, found out I was a few days pregnant.”

Smith must have told Aramovsky. In confidence, I’m sure, but he is so slimy, he was probably waiting for the right moment to use that information.

This news, it’s overwhelming. And Spingate is my friend…why didn’t she tell me?

The way she changed, became so serious, fighting to get her way when before she would go along with whatever I wanted to do. The things she said…

Our children will inherit Omeyocan. What kind of a planet do you want them to have? One of war, or one of peace?

I should say something to her, to everyone, but there are no words.

Aramovsky smiles wide, raises his hands, expertly commanding the room’s attention.

“It has begun,” he says. “Our children and our children’s children are going to fill this planet. We are the chosen people. Omeyocan is our