by Scott Sigler
“I have no information on Deck Four, Captain Xander. My knowledge of that part of the ship has been erased.”
“I figured,” Gaston says. “This has been erased, that has been erased—if I ask about anything other than flying, the shuttle doesn’t know anything. It doesn’t even know why it picked this place to land.”
Like us, the shuttle has blank areas.
There are instant questions of who erased its memories, and why, but those things aren’t important right now.
“We have to find food,” I say. “We’ll eat up what we have very quickly. Finding food is our first objective.”
Bishop shakes his head. “First we need to understand our immediate surroundings. Find places from where we could be attacked, and ways to escape if we are. We need to reconnoiter the area, Em.”
He says that big word the way Spingate said microorganisms.
Gaston’s sleepy face brightens. “I can help with that. The shuttle has powerful sensors for flying. I bet it can make us a map.”
He whispers something. He tilts his head, listening, and I see a black jewel in his ear, just like Spingate’s. He raises his hands. Light bathes his skin, making him glow like a god.
The images on the walls around us suddenly flow toward the middle of the pilothouse, shrinking rapidly as they go, the contracting vine ring at the center. In a blur of motion, the entire ruined city seems half the size, a quarter, a tenth, a hundredth. Buildings rush in, transforming from immense blocks of stone to tiny toys lined by tiny streets.
The pilothouse walls are once again black. The city that spread out in all directions is now a circle hovering at waist level. Bishop, Aramovsky, Gaston, Spingate, O’Malley and I stand at the map’s edge.
A glowing compass rose points out north, south, east and west. The center of the rose is a circle with the same Mictlan symbol that decorated our ties.
Streets and avenues are laid out in a grid. The two widest streets are perpendicular. Where they would cross each other, they vanish beneath the city’s largest building—that towering pyramid I saw when I was standing atop the vine ring.
To the northeast, a river flows into the city, so real I see the water sparkling, moving. The river ends at a tiny waterfall that drops into a wide pool.
I notice something about the vine-covered pyramids: they are flat squares stacked one on top of another, each smaller than the layer below. They look like the ones that were carved into my birth-coffin.
“Ziggurats,” I say. The word just pops out; I’ve remembered something from Matilda’s past. The others look at the stepped pyramids, at each other, and nod. They now remember that word, too.
Spingate points to a glowing dot at the map’s center. “That’s our shuttle.”
It seems so small, further emphasizing the vastness of the ruined city.
Gaston gestures to the map’s circular edge. “That’s as far as the shuttle can see.”
Even though it’s fairly small on the map, the tallest ziggurat—the one on top of the two intersecting roads—is detailed enough for me to make out a pillar at the very top, where the yellow vines don’t grow. Six black symbols run down its length: empty circle, circle-star, double-ring, circle-cross, half-circle and, at the bottom, the tooth-circle or “gear.”
About two-thirds of the way up that ziggurat, on a corner, a vine-covered statue of a person faces up toward the peak. I can’t tell if it is a man or a woman. The statue must be huge.
This building seems important.
“Gaston,” I say, “how long would it take us to reach that tall ziggurat?”
He leans toward it, thinks. “If you walk fast, the better part of a day, most likely.”
O’Malley reaches out to touch the buildings near his waist, as if they are tiny things he might pick up. His hand goes right through them, kicking up a small cloud of sparkles.
“These buildings look different from the rest,” he says.
I see what he means. The ones near him are more broken down: partially collapsed, many with caved-in roofs and trees growing out of them. Their shapes are different—six sides, not four like most of the buildings on the map. And they are smaller, dwarfed by even the medium-sized ziggurats.
To the northeast a bit past the waterfall, I notice a thick line that intersects the map’s circle. The six-sided buildings are all on the far side of that line.
I point at it. “Is that a wall?”
Gaston reaches down with both hands, grabs the air above that section, and stretches his hands apart—the map zooms in. There is less detail now, and the image looks a bit fuzzy, but it is clearly a high, thick wall.
Aramovsky crosses his arms, frowns in thought.
“Four-sided buildings on our side of the wall, six-sided on the other,” he says. “Why would that be?”
No one answers.
O’Malley takes in a sharp breath of surprise, points. “Zoom in on that!”
Gaston does. It’s a rectangular building, big enough to hold a dozen shuttles, about halfway between us and the waterfall. The building is covered in yellow vines, like all the others, but it has a unique feature: thick, vine-draped poles rising up from the roof’s edge, as if there is an army of spear-holders down there, standing guard, weapons held high. The poles taper to a rounded tip with just the hint of a point. I almost recognize that shape.
“Those are statues of corn,” O’Malley says. “The building is a warehouse.”
We all look at him, doubtful.
O’Malley’s steady calm has vanished. His eyes are bright and his smile blazes, a smile so real and beautiful it makes my breathing stop.
“I remember something,” he says. “My father—I mean, my progenitor’s father—worked for a city. Maybe. Anyway, my progenitor saw buildings like this. They’re used to store food.”
If he’s right, that means the Grownups built this city. So where are they? What happened to them?
If that building holds food, it could mean the difference between life and death. We need to learn what plants we can and can’t eat, how to farm and hunt, but mastering those skills will probably take much longer than our supplies will last.
“It’s not far,” Gaston says. “It would only take a couple of hours to walk there.”
Aramovsky points to the glowing dot at the map’s center. “Why not just fly the shuttle right to it?”
“I’m not sure there’s a place to land,” Gaston says. “And besides, the shuttle needs fuel to fly.” He pauses, opens his mouth to say something, then closes it.
Spingate finishes for him. “We have barely enough fuel left for one trip to the Xolotl. If we fly around for other purposes—for anything—we won’t be able to go back. Not ever.”
Everyone falls silent. I hadn’t realized going back was an option. The thought is uncomfortable: if we fail on Omeyocan, our survival might depend on returning to a place where people want to kill us.
Aramovsky waves a hand dismissively. “The God of Blood sent us here. We are destined to succeed. God gave us this shuttle, and we should use it to—”
“We walk,” I say sharply, cutting him off. “Like Bishop said, we have to reconnoiter anyway, so we’ll do some of that while we go to the warehouse. If we find food there, we have more time to figure out what to do next.”
Bishop stands straighter. “I’ll take Farrar and Coyotl. We’ll move fast, come back and report to you.”
“I’ll go as well,” Spingate says.
Bishop shakes his head. “No, you’ll slow us down.”
Spingate lifts the arm with the bracer. “If we find food or water, this will tell us if it’s poisonous.”
“If we find food or water, we’ll bring some back,” Bishop says. “Then you can tell us if it’s safe.”
Spingate puts her hands on her hips.
“She’s going,” I say. “As am I.”
Bishop glares at me. So does O’Malley.
“It’s dangerous, Em,” O’Malley says. “The leader shouldn’t go out until we
know you won’t get hurt.”
Once again the boys want to keep me safe. Too bad—I’m not the kind to hide away when there is work to be done.
“If I don’t face danger, I can’t ask others to do the same,” I say. “And we don’t know what plants or animals we’ll find on the way. We have no idea what might be edible here. Spingate will evaluate as we go.”
Bishop sighs, shakes his head. O’Malley forces the scowl off his face.
“Let’s get ready,” I say. “O’Malley, you and Gaston are in charge while I’m gone. We need to know everything that’s in this shuttle—and find out who’s inside those coffins.”
We set out from the shuttle: Spingate and I, along with Bishop, Coyotl and Farrar. Everyone sees us off, waving and cheering. O’Malley is staying behind. He can’t hide his concern. Is he worried about my safety? That he’ll have to keep an eye on Aramovsky? Or is he worried I’ll be with Bishop?
Maybe it’s all those things.
At least O’Malley wasn’t as bad as Gaston. The little pilot looked like he was on the edge of tears because Spingate was leaving. Just before we left, I saw them facing each other, holding hands. He looked at the ground, nodding his head while she spoke softly.
I have the spear. Bishop has his red axe. The heavy shovel rests on Farrar’s shoulder. Coyotl still prefers his tried-and-true thighbone.
Spingate carries the jewel-studded tool I found back in the Xolotl’s coffin room. Her bag also holds a white case filled with bandages, sharp little knives, pills, needles and thread for stitching wounds, containers of ointments and other things. Smith taught Spingate how to use all of it.
Opkick and Borjigin—teenage half-circles who were originally with Bishop’s crew—took it upon themselves to start an inventory of the storerooms. They sent each of us off with a small black bag containing some food, a bottle of water and a flashlight. They also found a handful of knives, with sheaths that strap around our thighs. There aren’t many of these, so we only give them to the circle-stars.
We climb the ring of piled vines and descend the other side. Just like that, the shuttle is gone from sight. We’re heading into the unknown. Am I frightened? Of course. But I have also grown accustomed to this—the unknown is all that I have ever known.
We walk down a wide, vine-covered street. The sounds of our people quickly fade away. Leaves rattle: the dead city hissing at us. A light breeze brings new smells. I now recognize the minty scent of the vines. Most odors, though, neither I nor Matilda have ever known before.
Buildings rise up on either side of the street. Some are boxy, but most are stepped pyramids. Ziggurats. Those remind me of something from my childhood…Matilda’s childhood, I mean. I remember a wedding. I remember staring up at the cake, at four layers, each layer smaller than the one below it. At the top, a little statue of two people. I thought it was a toy. I wanted to play with it, but Mother wouldn’t let me.
Some of the pyramids are small, three or four layers, while others are massive, twenty layers or more. The biggest of these have layers so wide that there are smaller ziggurats built upon the flat spaces. Vines cover almost everything, softening shapes, turning the orange-brown stone a pale, fuzzy yellow.
As I walk, I realize I don’t feel as anxious about the sprawling sky above. All this open space, it feels like I belong here. I’m beginning to understand that this is natural. This is the way things should be—being cramped in a shuttle or packed into narrow hallways is not.
A few buildings have collapsed. Young trees rise up from the street, from rooftops, from the sloped sides of the ziggurats. Trunks of green and brown, leaves a darker yellow than those of the vines. The way tree roots clutch at stone walls makes me think more buildings will collapse as the years roll on.
Birds fly overhead—well, not the birds I know from Matilda’s memories, but brightly colored animals about the same size. Instead of feathered, flapping wings, these things have two sets of stiff, buzzing membranes. The membranes move so fast they are a blur.
Blurds—that’s what I will call these creatures.
Some are small, some big. A large one sweeps its wings back against its long body and dives, then pulls up sharply, extending claws that snatch a smaller blurd right out of the air with a sickening smack-crunch.
Death lives here. Death lived on the Xolotl. Perhaps death lives everywhere.
Farrar turns in circles as he walks forward, almost tripping, gawking up at the towering pyramids. “Where is everyone?”
There should be people. Lots of them, yet the only motion comes from blurds and blowing leaves. If O’Malley is right about the warehouse, the Grownups built all of this.
So where did they go?
—
By the time we reach the warehouse, the red sun is directly overhead. Heat beats down on us, makes my shirt damp. I hope we can go inside and find some shade.
The warehouse is built from the same vine-covered stone that makes up the rest of the city. It’s tall and wide, with a peaked roof that faces our street. The vines are so thick they almost obscure two huge stone doors that look like they’re designed to slide apart. If those doors opened all the way, the shuttle could roll in with plenty of room to spare on either side.
Cornstalk statues rise up from the roof’s edges. This close to them, the vines look like old spiderwebs strung between the posts.
Bishop points to the base of the big doors. “Let’s try there.”
We walk closer. Through the thick plant cover, I see a person-sized door set into the big sliding one. How did he spot that?
Bishop rips vines, tosses them aside. He exposes a pair of familiar-looking holes in the small door’s frame. Spingate looks at me for permission; I nod. She inserts the golden tool and starts pressing jewels, trying to unlock it.
Several minutes pass. The heat pounds down. I’m getting bored, and so are the others.
“Spin, is that going to work or not?”
“Almost got it,” she says.
The door clicks, grinds inward. Dirt falls. Dust puffs. A stale smell billows out, carried on a wave of cold air.
Axe in one hand, flashlight in the other, Bishop enters, Coyotl and Farrar at his heels.
I stand alone with Spingate. She seems distracted, as if all of this wonder is lost on her.
“Spin, are you all right?”
She looks at me, forces a smile. “Yes. I just…I’m worried about Gaston. Something could happen to him while we’re gone.”
Not something could happen to the OTHERS, but rather, something could happen to HIM. I remember the way the two of them wrestled back on the Xolotl, laughing and playing. Different from how the others played. I feel awkward and uncomfortable talking about this. I’ve never kissed a boy—or a girl, for that matter—so I don’t know what I’m talking about, but it seems to me she really likes Gaston.
“Are you and he…um…more than just friends?”
She sniffs. “I think I love him.”
Love? I wasn’t expecting that. Love is for older people. But then, we are older. Aren’t we?
Could I fall in love?
I feel a surge of happiness. We’re starting a new world down here. We need love. We need people to…to make babies.
A rush of shame. Flashes of people in black uniforms hitting me, calling me evil and blasphemous. My skin suddenly feels hot, and it’s not from the sun. What did Matilda have to go through as a child? For the first time, I feel actual sympathy for her—and I hate myself for it.
“Em, are you okay?”
“Yes, sorry.” I wave at myself, trying to cool off my skin. “Gaston…does he love you back?”
Her eyes crinkle in a smile that owns every bit of her face.
“Well, when we were in the pilothouse, we—”
Bishop’s head pops out of the door.
“Em, you have to see this.”
—
No vines in here. Flashlight beams play off tall blue racks that stretch away from us, rise up to t
he slanted roof far above. White bins pack the racks, bins large enough for me to fit inside if I scrunched tight enough. The floor feels smooth, but is covered in dirt and bumpy spots.
A few blurds zip through the darkness, their presence known only by the buzzing of wings and high-pitched chirps. I try not to think that the bumps under my bare feet are probably blurd poop.
So dim in here, so many places to hide. I think back to the Xolotl’s long hallways, the shadowy places where the pigs lurked. I think back to Latu’s body, surrounded by bloody hoofprints.
I hate dark places.
Bishop creeps to the closest rack, axe at the ready. Nothing happens. He rests his axe against the rack, slowly pulls out a bin. Flashlight beams catch shimmers of movement: shiny little things scurrying off the bin, scampering away into the darkness. Some kind of insect, maybe.
Bishop places the bin on the dirty floor. On top of the bin is a profile of a jaguar, yellow and black. The jaguar’s eye is a clear jewel. Bishop stares at the bin for a moment, hands searching the sides, brushing away dust and dead bugs. He presses the jaguar’s eye. A click, then the top of the bin opens, two halves sliding to the sides just like the lids of our birth-coffins back on the Xolotl.
We join him. Inside the bin are dark-pink packages, each marked with simple letters. The letters look worn, fuzzy, but we can make out the words: PROTEIN, BREAD, VEGETABLES, VITAMINS.
“That answers that,” Spingate says. “The packages are a different color, but other than that, they look exactly like what we found in the shuttle. The Grownups built this place.”
Bishop reaches in with his left hand, pulls out a package labeled BISCUITS. He switches the package to his right hand, then looks at his left—red dust on his fingers. The package isn’t actually dark pink: there are white spots where his fingers held it.
Spingate frowns. “Bishop, put it down. Let me see if it’s still edible.”
Bishop sets the package on the floor.
Spingate waves her bracelet over it.
Farrar gives the bin a light kick as if to make sure it’s real. He looks up at the endless racks.
“So much,” he says. “We can eat forever and ever.”