Alight

by Scott Sigler

  Borjigin saved my life, true, but without Barkah and his friends we would all be dead. The Springer prince is brave beyond words. Although he unleashed violence just now, he did so because he wants peace.

  Together, we can deliver on that promise.

  The corridor is long and straight—like the ones we walked on the Xolotl—but at least this one is flat.

  “Matilda,” Bishop says, his voice a croaking, broken thing. “Is she dead? You’re not safe until she is.”

  “She’s alive,” I say. “I’m sure of it.”

  Matilda won’t stop until she gets me. And we have no idea what this city holds—she built it, maybe there are places other than the Observatory where she could wipe out my mind.

  I assume Matilda got away…so where would she go?

  No, that’s the wrong way to think about it—where would I go? If I was defeated, if my friends were killed, what would I do?

  “Bello’s ship,” I say. “Matilda is too old to run far. She’ll try and use Bello’s ship to get back to the Xolotl. I don’t know what time it is—are we sure Aramovsky is still going to attack? If he isn’t, we can go after her.”

  “He is,” Bishop says. “Aramovsky sent some of the young circle-stars out scouting on spiders. They had just come back when he ordered me here. They reported hundreds of Springers near a clearing west of the city. He said he was going to attack at dawn.”

  I quickly explain what Barkah showed me about how the Springer king is luring Aramovsky in.

  “Our people will be outnumbered a hundred to one,” I say. “Aramovsky is leading them into a trap.”

  Borjigin shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He’s still wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. The skin there is rubbed raw. “Before he ordered me here, I’d repaired four more spiders, so he marched with six of them. Zubiri and the others were working on other machines, but I wasn’t paying attention to them and don’t know what they might have fixed. The thing is, I fixed the cannons. All of them. The bracelets are nothing compared to what the spiders have now. Em, Aramovsky will slaughter Springers by the thousands.”

  I wince and glance at Barkah, forgetting for an instant that he doesn’t speak our language. He has no idea that the Springer king’s trap is going to turn into a massacre.

  We reach the end of the tunnel. We push through thick vines, find ourselves on the street—it’s still dark. We still have a little time, at least.

  Coyotl’s spider stands there, motionless. Gaston and Spingate are beneath it. Five musket-armed Springers are on top of it. Their skin is reddish purple. More red than purple, really, and they are significantly smaller than Barkah, Lahfah and the others, so small their muskets look bigger than they are. These Springers are still children—the equivalent, perhaps, of our twelve-year-olds. Maybe Matilda came for Coyotl’s spider, but saw these armed youngsters and chose to slip away rather than engage in a shootout.

  Borjigin walks to the spider. He puts a hand on one of the five legs, hangs his bloody head and starts to cry.

  Far off on the horizon, I see the glow of morning. The sun isn’t up quite yet, but we don’t have long.

  If I try to stop the battle, Matilda will reach her ship. She might escape. I want her dead. I don’t want to have to choose between those things, but that’s what a leader does: make choices.

  “Barkah and I have to get to the clearing,” I say. “Before the sun rises. He and I can stop this.”

  Bishop’s swollen face shows doubt that I can accomplish that, but he doesn’t argue.

  “We’re in the middle of the city,” he says. “The clearing is way past the wall. Even with the spider, you won’t make it before sunrise.”

  The moonlight shines down on his face: one eye swollen shut, cuts dripping blood, his lower lip puffed out and badly split.

  For the first time since we left the fire behind, Gaston speaks.

  “If we take the spider, we’re only ten or fifteen minutes from the landing pad—then the shuttle could reach the clearing in less than ten minutes, including the time I need to fire up the engines.”

  The words hang in the air.

  My friends are watching me, waiting. Bishop, Borjigin, Gaston, Spingate…even Barkah and Lahfah. There was no vote this time, and I don’t care—I know what must be done, and I will lead the way.

  If we do as Gaston suggests, then we can never go back to the Xolotl. I swore I would die on Omeyocan before returning to that ship of horrors. But believing you won’t use an option and removing that option completely are two different things. If something else goes wrong down here, if there is another kind of mold, if the Springers decide they want war no matter what, if there is a disaster, anything, the shuttle won’t have enough fuel to let us run away.

  Another decision, and all mine to make.

  I make it.

  A thin arc of sun breaches the horizon. Long rafts of clouds blaze crimson, underlit against the dark-blue sky. Omeyocan’s twin moons are starting to fade, ready to sleep the day away until the nightfall comes again.

  We had to leave most of the Springers behind—there wasn’t enough room for everyone. With me, Bishop, Spingate, Gaston, Borjigin, Barkah and Lahfah, it’s a tight fit, but we manage to hold on even as Borjigin guides the spider up and over the landing pad’s thick ring of vines.

  The shuttle awaits us.

  Farrar and a dozen young circle-stars crouch near the ramp. Three of the young ones aim muskets at us. The others hold knives or various tools: picks, shovels, axes, more.

  The spider’s five hard feet clack-clack-clack against the landing pad’s metal surface. The machine slows; I’m off and down before it even comes to a complete stop.

  The circle-stars see the Springers, shuffle backward, agitated and afraid.

  “Hold your positions,” Farrar barks to his charges.

  The young circle-stars hold their places, but they don’t take their eyes off Barkah and Lahfah. Farrar can’t look away from them, either, not even when he talks to me.

  “Em, what’s going on? Did you see Aramovsky?”

  “Get everyone inside,” I say as I start past him toward the ramp. “We’re taking the shuttle.”

  He grabs my arm, spins me around.

  “Aramovsky is the leader now,” he says. “We’re not going anywhere without his orders, and those things aren’t coming aboard no matter what.”

  Bishop leaps over the spider’s protective ridge, grunts in pain when he hits the ground. Fists curled, he limps toward us.

  I hold up a hand, telling him to stop. He does, just a step away. Bishop is ready to fight, but in his condition, it’s a fight he won’t win.

  “Aramovsky betrayed us,” I say to Farrar and the circle-stars. “The Grownups are on Omeyocan, and he’s working with them. Do you know why he didn’t take you to the battle?”

  Farrar looks at me doubtfully. “We’re here to protect the shuttle against Springer attack.”

  “You’re here because there is a Grownup waiting to put you in a box, to invade your body and wipe you out, forever,” I say. “They don’t want you getting hurt or killed in the battle. They’ve already murdered Coyotl, Beckett and O’Malley. You were all supposed to be next.”

  I see the conflict on Farrar’s face, on the faces of the kids. They are afraid that I am right, but I am not the leader and I broke their trust when I didn’t tell them about the symbols. I also came here with Springers, the creatures they’ve been told are evil demons who want them all dead.

  Gaston and Spingate climb down from the spider.

  “Hurry up, you boneheads,” Gaston says as he heads up the ramp. “We don’t have time for this.”

  Spingate follows him, as does the still-sobbing Borjigin. Farrar watches them go by—he has no idea what to do.

  I reach out, take his hand, make him focus on me.

  “Farrar, I’m telling you the truth.”

  He shakes his head. “Even if you are, I have to follow orders. I have—”


  Bishop’s huge fist crashes into Farrar’s jaw. Farrar’s hand slides from mine. He drops, unconscious.

  Bishop draws himself up to his full height, shouts commands at the shocked young circle-stars.

  “All of you, get in the shuttle, right now, or I will throw you in it. And take Farrar to medical so Smith can look at him. Move!”

  The kids rush to Farrar, their previous instructions forgotten in the face of Bishop’s commanding presence. It takes five of them to lift the unconscious man and carry him up the ramp.

  I shake my head at Bishop. “I was handling that.”

  Bishop shrugs. “Enough talk. We don’t have time for it.”

  He limps into the shuttle, leaving me with Barkah and Lahfah.

  I gesture to the open door.

  “Move,” I say. “Peace.”

  Lahfah’s eyes scan the gleaming metal shuttle. Has he been told about these flying machines since he was little? Did his culture fill him with stories about the carnage that machines like this wreaked on his people? Asking him to go inside must be like asking him to walk into a monster’s mouth.

  If Barkah thinks the same thing, he doesn’t show it. My brave new friend hops up the ramp.

  Lahfah looks to the sky and taps his throat. For some reason, the gesture makes me think of a human sighing heavily in exasperation. He follows his prince up the ramp.

  I run into the shuttle, gesture to Lahfah and Barkah to stay in the entryway.

  In the coffin room, I see dozens of kids. All the symbols are represented. Of the people my age, I see Okereke, Cabral and Opkick. I don’t see Bawden, Johnson, Ingolfsson or D’souza—they are with Aramovsky’s army, cannon fodder to be used against the Springers.

  I look for Zubiri—she’s not here.

  And then I see Bello.

  My frustration and anger draw down to a single point: her.

  “Your fault,” I say. “It’s your fault O’Malley is dead.”

  Her eyes go wide—not with fear, but with annoyance.

  “The transfer didn’t work on Kevin? That’s too bad, but how in the hell is that my fault?”

  On Kevin…

  She thinks I’m talking about that wrinkled old monster…Bello thinks I’m Matilda.

  Rage engulfs me without warning, hot and tingling and all-powerful. She isn’t really just Bello anymore, she is all the Grownups, she is the reason we have suffered endlessly, the reason my friends are dead.

  I rush her, hurdling coffins and kids alike.

  Bello shakes her head—a confused What are you doing?—then I am on her. I slam her into the red wall. The back of her head hits hard enough to make the metal thrum. She cries out in pain and surprise. I bend my right arm, whip my elbow at her face—O’Malley’s silver bracelet slams into her mouth.

  She falls, spitting blood and teeth.

  “You used us,” I say.

  I viciously kick her ribs with the toe of my heavy black boot. She lets out a sound that is more hiccup than groan, rolls to her back. Her hands rise up, trying to surrender or ward off the attack—I don’t know which, and I don’t care.

  “You were supposed to protect us.”

  I drop my knee into her stomach as hard as I can. The wind shoots out of her all at once. Her eyes widen in shock and fear—the fear of not knowing if she will ever draw another breath.

  “You wanted to make us just like you.”

  I’m vaguely aware of kids screaming, of my fellow circles shouting at me to stop, yet none of them lay a hand on me.

  I straddle Bello, pinning her hips to the floor. I punch her in the eye, feel the skin of my knuckles split.

  “You are all monsters!”

  I rear back, hit her again. Her head bounces off the floor. I hit her a third time, smashing her nose.

  Blood covers her face. Her eyes are open, but they don’t really see anything.

  “You couldn’t just let us be,” I say. “It didn’t have to be like this.”

  I aim the point of my bracelet right between her tear-filled eyes.

  “Crying doesn’t fix anything,” I say. “You cry because you are weak.”

  She trembles. She’s beaten, she’s helpless, and I don’t care.

  All I have to do is straighten my fingers, then she will be no more.

  The shuttle shudders. I hear and feel a rumble.

  The engines—Gaston has started them up.

  It’s enough to distract me, to make me look at what I have done.

  A deep cut above Bello’s eye pulses with red blood. Her nose lies at an angle, bone or maybe cartilage sticking out of a jagged rip that leaks blood down her cheek. Her upper lip is split, bleeding badly. Her front two teeth are gone, and the left incisor is broken in half, a splintered tip jutting from bloody gums.

  A strong hand, gentle on my shoulder.

  “That’s enough,” Bishop says. “Come to the pilothouse.”

  The kids are staring at me, wide-eyed, openmouthed, as are Okereke, Cabral, Borjigin and Opkick. A handful of Aramovsky’s young circle-stars stand there, their faces alive and drinking in the violence. They look at me with newfound respect. I have spoken a language they were programmed to understand.

  Bishop lifts me, sets me on my feet.

  “Put Bello in an empty storage room,” he says. “Lock her in. Don’t hurt her further.”

  People rush to gather her up, just as the kids outside rushed to gather up Farrar after Bishop knocked him out.

  At the coffin room entryway, Barkah and Lahfah stare at me. How much of Bello’s beating did they see?

  The shuttle shudders again. The unseen engines scream so loud I almost cover my ears, then the noise drops down to a mere roar.

  I sprint to the pilothouse, gesturing for the two Springers to follow me.

  Inside, both Gaston and Spingate are bathed in color.

  “Preflight checks complete,” Gaston says. “Shuttle, give us handholds.”

  Spots on the black floor rise up, seem to flow right out of the solid surface. Gaston and Spingate each grab one. Barkah and Lahfah do the same.

  “The floor of the pilothouse accommodates for sudden banks or thrust, but it’s not a perfect system,” Gaston says. “That means hold on tight. Shuttle, open internal comm.”

  “Internal comm open, Captain.”

  When Gaston speaks again, I hear his words echo throughout the shuttle. “Everyone, get into a coffin and stay there. This ride will be short but the landing might be bumpy.”

  He waves his hand. I hear something click. He looks at me, and when he talks his voice is normal.

  “We’re ready,” he says. “Is this still what you want?”

  Behind Gaston, one of the walls shows the rising sun. The blazing red orb has just lifted free of the horizon.

  “Take us to the clearing,” I say. “As fast as you can.”

  Gaston nods. “Shuttle, initiate flight plan.”

  We lift off. I feel us banking slightly this way and that, but as Gaston told us, the floor shifts instantly at each movement, tilting to counter the effects. Despite that, I grip the handhold far harder than I ever held the spear.

  We rise quickly. Images on the walls change, showing us the spreading grandeur of Omeyocan. In seconds we are up high, much higher than the Observatory. We can see mountains off in the distance, great rivers, vast plains and the ever-present yellow jungle.

  Barkah and Lahfah look terrified, but they hold on tight and make no noise. They have suffered much. A broken leg, a ruined eye, burned and blistered skin. Some of their cuts have crusted over, others still leak blue blood.

  “Five minutes,” Gaston says.

  The sun is up—has the battle already begun?

  I look at Bishop. Cuts and welts dot his swollen face. His knuckles drip blood to the pilothouse floor. The beating his creator gave him…I don’t know how any human being could keep going after that, yet here he stands, at my side and ready to go even further.

  “You look terrible,” I say.
>
  He smiles. “And you look like a warrior.”

  I keep one hand locked on the handhold while the other feels my face. My broken nose. O’Malley, hitting me so hard. His knife. The way it slid into him…the shock on his face, his horror at knowing he’d gotten what he’d sought for a thousand years and I had just taken that away from him.

  “You had to do it,” Bishop says softly. “But what you killed, that wasn’t O’Malley.”

  He knows my thoughts.

  I want to believe he’s right, but I can’t. Kevin was still in there, at least some small part. If I had captured him rather than killing him, maybe I could have found a way to bring him back. Instead, I stabbed him to death.

  In my head, I know I did the only thing I could. There was too much going on, blood and death and fire all around—there was no other option.

  In my heart, though, I will always know I could have found a better way.

  Bishop reaches out, touches my cheek. So gentle. It is almost enough to make me forget the horrors, forget the things I’ve done.

  “And my progenitor,” he says. “Don’t feel bad about killing him, either, because doing so saved my life.”

  I nod again, but I know that is a lie, too. Bishop’s creator was done fighting. Maybe forever. I could see it in his strange, red eyes. He’d won his battle, somehow proving to himself that the man he’d become after a thousand years of experience and wisdom was superior to the raw talent and energy he was as a youth. But that victory cost him—he could no longer see my Bishop as an empty shell waiting to be filled. Even after a thousand years, there was a good man in there. A man who finally remembered right from wrong.

  And when he did, I ripped him into pieces.

  Yong…the pig…Ponalla the Springer…Old Bishop…O’Malley…Old Visca…

  All dead by my hand.

  And Bello, beaten to a pulp, alive only because the shuttle’s engines distracted me.

  Why am I like this?

  What’s wrong with me?

  How many more will I kill?

  “I am the wind,” I say quietly. “I am death.”

  Bishop nods in solemn understanding. “Someone has to be, Em.” He glances at Barkah, at Lahfah, taking in their wounds. “In every civilization, someone has to be.”