by Scott Sigler
If we can find enough fruit, we have an entire warehouse of food—years’ worth, enough to keep us alive while we learn to farm and hunt. Everyone is hungry, but now there is hope.
Aramovsky clasps his hands together and looks skyward.
“It is a miracle,” he says. “We are delivered.”
“Hardly,” Spingate says quickly. “We only have this one fruit. We need many more so we can experiment, find the best way to use it. If this was really a miracle, we’d have all the food we wanted, wouldn’t we?”
Aramovsky grins. “It’s not a miracle that on the very day we run out of food, we discover fruit that will let us survive? It’s not a miracle that we suddenly have guns and war machines? The gods provided tools of salvation—that doesn’t mean they’re going to do the work for us.”
He steps onto the stage. I see O’Malley bristle: he doesn’t like this. Well, that’s too bad. Whispering in my ear isn’t going to stop our enemy.
“The demons murdered brave Visca,” Aramovsky says. “May the gods welcome him home.”
In unison, half the crowd repeats his words: “May the gods welcome him home.”
A chill runs through me. How did they all know to say that? So many, speaking at once…it calls back Matilda’s vague memories of being in church. While I’ve been looking for food, how many people has Aramovsky talked to?
“They’re not demons,” Spingate says. “They’re intelligent beings.”
“They attacked us, for no reason,” Aramovsky says. He points to the fruit in her hand. “And they could have given us the secret to survival any time they liked. They did not because they are evil—they want us all to die.”
Grumbles of agreement. Heads nodding.
Even though he’s talking about demons and gods, is the core of what he says so wrong? We did nothing to the Springers.
“Now we have weapons,” he says. “We must take the spiders into the jungle and destroy the demons. The only way we can be safe is to wipe them out.”
People murmur their approval. I usually disagree with Aramovsky, but this time he’s right. The Springers attacked us once—they will attack us again. If I want to save lives, we need to kill our enemy, we need to be forever free.
Aramovsky puts his arm around my shoulders, keeps talking to the crowd.
“Em knows what must be done. She killed one of them. She will lead us into battle, we will win this war, and the gods will be—”
Splat—the purple fruit hits his face, spins down to the floor, where it lands in a wet pile.
He stares, stunned. Smelly juice drips from his skin.
In the following silence, Spingate growls her words at Aramovsky.
“Battle? Kill them all? You superstitious idiot.” She casts her glare about the room. “And all of you, blindly agreeing with anything he says. Are you stupid? We can’t go to war with the Springers—we need them.”
Aramovsky’s arm slides away from my shoulders. As it does, I can feel his hatred, an almost physical thing.
“I thought you knew math,” he says to her. “There is only so much fruit. It’s us or them.”
Spingate rolls her eyes. “You want to wipe out an intelligent race that could show us how to survive? The red mold isn’t the only threat here. What about poisons the purple fruit won’t purify? What about the snake-wolves, or other predators we haven’t seen? How many people in this room need to die before we understand what’s safe and what isn’t? The Springers know how to survive on Omeyocan—we don’t.”
Her words chisel away at the vengeful feeling in my chest. She’s right. We’ve only been here a few days. There could be more dangers. Without someone to guide us, each lesson we learn might come from someone getting hurt. Or worse.
Coyotl bangs his thighbone against the shuttle wall. He’s standing with Borjigin, both of them looking over the crowd of smaller kids in front of them.
“They killed Visca,” Coyotl says. “We could have killed them first, but we didn’t! First chance they got they attacked us. Aramovsky is right—they’re demons!”
Spingate shakes her head. “They’re not demons.”
“You didn’t see them,” Borjigin says. “They’re horrible to look at.”
She screams her answer: “We probably look horrible to them! We have to find a way to communicate—we can’t just march into the jungle and slaughter them!”
“We can,” Aramovsky says. “We must. On the largest building in this city stands a statue of Em, of our own leader. It is a sign from the gods that she is destined to lead us to victory!”
Aramovsky smiles at me, eyes blazing with intensity. He wants me to embrace this “destiny.” But it’s not a statue of me: it’s supposed to be Matilda. The way Aramovsky says it, though…it’s hard not to wonder if he’s right. Matilda isn’t on Omeyocan, I am—can’t old things take on new meanings?
“The Observatory has signs, too,” Spingate says, staring at me. I’m suddenly the object of a battle between two powerful people, each trying to sway me to their way of thinking.
“Remember those signs, Em?” she says. “Should we make them all come true?”
The images of death, of torturing gears and halves. Murder of people like Spingate, Gaston, O’Malley, Zubiri, Borjigin.
“Of course not,” I say. “But that’s not the same thing—the Springers aren’t like us.”
Spingate shrugs. “How would we know? You said there were children. Families. Sooner than you think, we’ll have families, too. Our children will inherit Omeyocan. What kind of a planet do you want them to have? One of war, or one of peace?”
Our children? That’s crazy. We’re not old enough for…
No, we are. Spin and I, Bawden, Smith, Johnson, Cabral, Opkick, D’souza…we all have the bodies of young women, not kids. And those of us that are kids won’t stay that way for long.
A little girl hops on top of a coffin: Walezak, Zubiri’s quiet friend.
“We should destroy the demons, before it’s too late,” she says. Her face contorts with rage. She pounds her fist into her palm as she talks. “Aramovsky is right—this planet was made for us. If we want it, we have to show that we’re worthy! Kill them all! Kill them all!”
Half the room erupts in roars and cheers.
So much hate on Walezak’s little features. It shocks me, disturbs me. She should be playing with dolls, not calling for slaughter. But she has a double-ring on her forehead. Like Aramovsky, she was made to preach religion.
Spingate waves her hands above her head, demanding the crowd’s attention.
“War isn’t a game,” she shouts. “If we try to solve this with violence, it won’t just be Springers that die. We have a few guns—the Springers have more.”
She points at the circle-star girl holding the pitchfork.
“What about you, Marija? Will you die from a bullet in the face?”
Spingate points at Borjigin. “Or you? Maybe a knife in the belly, a wound so bad even Smith’s coffin can’t fix it, so you die slow, screaming for help that no one can provide? Is that worth fighting our ugly enemy, Borjigin?”
Borjigin’s eyes are wide. He doesn’t answer.
“They were here first,” Spingate says. “There could be thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands. If we attack them and fail, do you think five muskets and three spiders will stop them from pouring in here to wipe us out? What if they shot Visca because they thought we were attacking them?”
Aramovsky yells something at her, Gaston yells something back, but their arguments become background noise as her words bounce through my thoughts—What if they thought we were attacking them?
The city beyond the walls, utterly destroyed. Demolished buildings, deep craters…there was a war before we even arrived. The spiders, knocking down the wall of that building where we first found a campfire. Spiders, attacking and killing the Springers in the clearing.
Spiders, with the circle-star symbol…
Visca, his sweat washing the camouflag
e from his face, exposing that same symbol on his forehead…
The pieces click together.
So many people screaming—no one is listening. Those for war and those against it are arguing, even pushing each other.
I slam my spear butt hard on the stage.
“Enough! Everyone, shut up!”
Aramovsky smiles. He thinks I will take his side. He’s wrong.
“The Springers attacked us, yes,” I say. “They killed Visca, yes. But I don’t think they’re demons. If anything, to them, we are the monsters.”
Aramovsky looks shocked, betrayed.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “We aren’t monsters. We are the chosen people.”
“Spiders kill Springers on sight,” I say. “The spiders standing outside this shuttle have hundreds of little dents from Springer bullets. The ruins outside the walls are from a huge city—the spiders destroyed that city. They must have killed thousands of Springers. When you say we didn’t do anything to the Springers, you’re right. We didn’t do anything, but our creators did.”
I tap my forehead.
“We all have symbols. Visca’s was the circle-star—the same symbol that’s painted on the spiders. What if the Springers saw his symbol—a symbol they must fear, they must hate—and acted just like we would act if someone came to kill us?”
Spingate’s eyes crinkle with a small smile. She’s impressed: I found a possible connection that she missed.
“We don’t know where the fruit grows,” she says. “If we kill the Springers, we might not find it at all. That gnawing feeling in your bellies? It’s going to get much, much worse. The fastest way to get rid of it is to find the Springers and talk to them, make them understand we are not our creators, that we mean no harm.”
A few hands reactively go to stomachs. Aramovsky uses gods to get through to people—Spingate does the same with hunger.
Aramovsky shakes his head, his stare now burning with hatred.
“So one of us should just walk out past the wall and ask these killers for help? You already said how we would die horribly, Spingate, so who is going to go? You?”
She nods. “Yes. Me.”
The crowd falls silent. They can’t believe she just volunteered. Neither can I.
She points to her forehead. “I don’t have a circle-star. If Em’s right, maybe that will give me a chance. Em also said the Springers were about her size, which means they are about my size—maybe I won’t be as intimidating as Visca was, maybe they won’t shoot me right away.”
She is so brave, and I am instantly proud of her all over again, inspired by her. This is my friend, my courageous friend.
Gaston grabs her arm.
“Maybe isn’t good enough,” he says. “It’s too dangerous for you.”
She pulls her arm away, holds it up, showing her golden bracer.
“If we do make contact, and they show us anything about the purple fruit, a gear needs to see it. Kalle did her part. Zubiri is too little. Now it’s my turn.”
In a panic, Gaston grabs for her bracer. “Then I’ll go, I’m even smaller than you!”
She twists away from him. “What are you doing? Stop it!”
I raise a booted foot high, stomp down on the stage as hard as I can. The sound is almost as loud as a musket shot—it silences everyone, stops everything.
“Gaston, you’re staying here,” I say. “If the Springers do attack, you might have to fly the shuttle to get everyone away safely.”
He snarls at me. “Beckett can fly the shuttle! Make someone else do this. You can’t let Spingate go alone!”
“She won’t be alone,” I say. “I’m going with her.”
Shouts of support, of disbelief. Aramovsky smiles, folds his arms and watches.
O’Malley steps toward the stage—he’s coming in for a whisper. I hold up my hand to him, palm out. He stops in place.
“Don’t bother,” I say. “This is going to happen.”
Bishop bangs his axe head against the coffin room wall, demanding everyone’s attention.
“Send me instead,” he says. “Just me. I move quieter than anybody, I can capture one and bring it back here.”
O’Malley comes forward again. “He’s right, Em, listen to Bishop.”
“Taking a prisoner is an act of war,” Spingate says. “Even if Bishop gets one, we have no idea if we can make it tell us what we need to know.”
Too many voices. Too many opinions.
I raise the spear over my head.
“Enough! I’ve made my decision. Only two people are going—the leader, who has the authority to speak for all of us, and the scientist, who can understand what we see.”
Spingate’s eyes meet mine. We are bound together in this. We were the first of our people to awaken. We found each other before we found anyone else. If we are to die trying to stop a war, then we will die as we began: together.
“The Observatory,” I say. “We’ll go there.”
She shakes her head. “I think this city is our territory, and the jungle is theirs. We need to go to them as a gesture of good faith. Can you take us to the clearing where Visca died?”
I remember the way Visca examined the trail, the surrounding plants, the footprints. I watched him carefully. Maybe I couldn’t find my way from the old fountain to that clearing, but—just like he did—I can follow the path from the gate to the first fire pit, then to the clearing where he died.
I look at the boys who don’t want us to go—Aramovsky, O’Malley, Bishop and Gaston—and I thump the spear butt lightly against the stage floor.
The decision is made, and it is final.
It’s just me and Spingate.
The fire pit was once again empty. I managed to pick up the same trail Visca followed. I figure we’re about an hour away from the clearing where he died.
We ripped a piece of white fabric out of a coffin and tied it to the end of my spear. O’Malley’s idea. Maybe the Springers won’t know it’s a symbol of peace, but it will make us visible a long ways off—we want them to know we’re coming.
The spiders are ours, and because of that, the city doesn’t seem as dangerous. Spingate and I rode on a spider with Bishop and Coyotl to the now-familiar gate. Bishop again insisted he come with, and again I said no. The two boys will wait for us at the gate. If we find another way in, I’ll send runners from the shuttle to bring them back.
Spingate seems so different now. This isn’t the giggling, frightened girl I woke up with. Is she changing because her memory is returning? Is it her relationship with Gaston?
I don’t know. And if she does, she’s not very talkative.
We have no idea if this will work. I think I’m right about Visca’s symbol, but can’t be sure. Even if I am right, the Springers might kill us anyway. I killed one of theirs, after all. If they recognize me, what will they do?
I have to try, though. If we don’t get food, I think Aramovsky will force a new vote—a vote I will lose. My people will want a new leader. I can’t blame them for that; they want something good to happen. I tell them the truth. Aramovsky will tell them what they want to hear, and for that he will win.
If he does, there will be war.
The sun is high overhead. A strong wind drives dark clouds our way. Blurds whiz by, their split-second shadows sometimes passing over our faces.
Spingate finally speaks. She stares straight down the path when she does.
“I thought you were going to take us to war,” she says. “I thought you were going to follow your violent nature.”
Does she think so little of me? Can’t she see what I actually did, not what she thought I would do?
“Violence is not my nature.”
She stops suddenly, finally looks at me. There is fire in her eyes.
“It is.” She points up. “We saw it on the Xolotl.” She points back toward the city. “We saw it on the Observatory steps.” She puts her fingertip on my chest. “And now we’ve seen it from you, when you k
illed that Springer.”
I slap her hand away.
“The deaths on the Xolotl belong to Matilda, not me, and so does the Observatory. And as for the Springer, you weren’t there. I had to kill to survive.”
She huffs. “Did you? Because from what Bishop and Coyotl and Borjigin said, it takes the Springers a long time to load their weapons. Why didn’t you just run away like Bishop did? Why did you go back to kill?”
(If you run, your enemy will hunt you…kill your enemy, and you are forever free.)
I went back because my father’s words are always rattling in my head. When things overwhelm me, I listen to those words. They make me act like a puppet. Spingate is right—maybe I didn’t realize it at the time, but I went back because I wanted to kill.
The sky darkens. Clouds close in.
I spot movement up high in the treetops. I stop, stare. Is there something behind the thick yellow leaves?
I point. “Did you see that?”
Spingate looks, concentrates, but shakes her head.
“No,” she says. “It was probably just an animal.”
The first drops of rain plunk against the jungle canopy. Then the skies open up—a light drizzle one second, a total downpour the next.
Spingate lowers her head and raises a hand to block the rain, but I ignore the splashing on my face—I keep looking.
Then it moves. Half my size, perhaps, the same yellow as vine leaves. Long, thin legs launch it from the treetop. Arms stretch out: something darker between the arms and the body, not wings, but skin, skin that catches the air and lets it glide. The small creature plunges through more vines and it is gone.
Spingate was right—it’s just an animal.
We keep moving. The rain beats down.
“I’m glad you came,” Spingate says. “But I wasn’t sure if you should. I’m still not. I’ll be honest—I’m afraid you’ll do something bad, that you’ll start the war you think you want to stop. And that’s if you haven’t started one already.”
It hurts that she doesn’t trust me, but in a way I’m glad she doesn’t. One mistake on my part and people could die—that’s more important than my feelings.