Alight (25 page)

Pain in his voice. Not from the cut on the back of his head, but from his soul. I feel it, too—we lost one of our own. It isn’t the first time. Latu, Yong, the El-Saffani twins, Bello, Harris…and now Visca. Seven of us, gone forever. Of those seven, five were circle-stars. They are the first to fight, the first to die.

“We can’t leave Visca,” I say. “We have to go get his body.”

Bishop shakes his head. “We don’t know where we are, and the enemy is out there in the jungle.”

“The pigs ate Latu,” I say. “I won’t leave Visca to be eaten by animals.”

Bishop leans close to me.

“You’re wounded and in no shape to fight. We’re heavily outnumbered. Our enemy knows this terrain so well they herded us where they wanted us to go. We try and find that clearing again, we probably die. In the shuttle, you’re the leader. Out here, from now on, you listen to me. Understand? I’m not going to lose anyone else today.”

Maybe he’s right. If I hadn’t walked to the fire, would Visca be alive? Is this yet another death on my hands? Maybe. But my decision also led to finding the purple fruit.

Kalle and Borjigin return, burdened down with armfuls of guns and dangling bags. I take the fruit from my pocket. It’s half-squashed, leaking amber-colored juice. I hold it out to her.

She snatches it, runs her bracer over it. We all watch. The jewels flash different colors, then gleam a shade of pink.

Kalle smiles.

“It’s safe to eat,” she says.

At least Visca didn’t die for nothing.

“I saw that pile of fruit,” Kalle says. “We should go back for it.”

Bishop shakes his head. “With as many people as we have to feed, that little pile won’t make any difference. We have a fruit for Spingate to study, but it doesn’t matter if we don’t get it back to her.” He spreads his arms, indicating the jungle. “Besides, we don’t even know where we are.”

Everyone looks to the surrounding trees, as if one of them might suddenly tell us directions. We sprinted through the jungle for I don’t know how long. Visca was our tracker, our guide.

Bishop glances up at Coyotl, who looks so gallant standing tall on that machine’s back. Bishop walks to one of the other spiders, stands between two gore-splattered legs.

“Hello, I am Bishop. First name, Ramses.”

He remembers his name?
Ramses
. What a beautiful word.

“We need to get back into the city,” Bishop says to the spider. “Can you take us to the landing pad?”

The spider’s body lowers until the metal belly clangs lightly against the broken tiles.

Bishop moves closer. On the side of the spider, I see three metal rungs…like a ladder. He steps onto them, swings a leg over the yellow and brown ridge, then stands tall atop the machine’s back.

Parts of the
Xolotl
only worked for certain people. Parts of the shuttle only work for Gaston, for O’Malley, for Smith, for me. These machines…they answer to the circle-stars.

“We’re going home,” Bishop says. “Everybody, mount up.”

T
hree spiders stride through the jungle. Long legs keep them above the dense underbrush. Their yellow, brown and green coloring fades into our surroundings. They rattle, whine and vibrate in a way that doesn’t seem right. If the machines were newer, not so beat up, I imagine they would be as silent as the circle-stars they were made for.

The ruins pass by. Blurds of all sizes buzz through the canopy. Some trees grow impossibly high, their wide, dark-yellow leaves drinking in the light. The same vines that cover the city’s buildings dangle from tall branches. Late afternoon sun filters through, making leaves glow with a fuzzy warmth.

The beauty of Omeyocan takes my breath away.

The dense underbrush gives way: we find ourselves on the bank of a wide river. Tall trees rise up on either side, forming a deep, living, yellow chasm that borders angry water. Blurds skim the surface, dipping in to snatch up this planet’s equivalent of tiny fish.

Ahead of us, the riderless spider doesn’t slow. Long legs plunge in and the machine turns downstream. The spider that Bishop and I ride follows, metal body half-submerging, leaving us just a bit above the roiling surface. It’s almost like riding in Grampa’s canoe during summer vacation.

Grampa’s canoe.

A Matilda memory. I remember Grampa’s laugh, his stubbly face. The canoe was red, and always smelled of old fish. It seems so real…like it isn’t Matilda’s experience at all, but
mine
. How can that be? I was created on a spaceship.

And yet…I remember how Grampa liked to tinker with old, useless antiques he called
watches
. He liked to show me the little bits and parts inside that fit together
just so
.

If Grampa were here, maybe he could fix these rattly machines.

I glance behind us, at the limp-legged, whining spider that carries Coyotl, Kalle and Borjigin. Like me, Kalle looks everywhere for any sign of the purple fruit. Does it grow on trees? Perhaps on a kind of smaller plant we haven’t seen yet? Borjigin’s eyes are closed, his head nestled against Coyotl’s neck. Coyotl’s arm is around Borjigin’s shoulder, but he stares straight ahead, eyes scanning the riverbanks.

The way they sit together…

Like Spingate found Gaston, I think Borjigin and Coyotl have found each other.

I wish Bishop would put his arm around me like that, hold me tight. It would be nice to relax into him, not have to think about
all
the things,
all
the time.

“See any fruit?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Neither have I. After Smith looks at you, we can take the spiders out and cover more area. But if we don’t find the fruit, Em…”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. If we don’t find the fruit, we need to find the Springers again—and this time,
we
will be the ones attacking.

I wanted to talk to them, to make peace, but they ambushed us. Unprovoked. We did nothing wrong. They started this fight, not us. We’re out of food and out of options.

If it’s war they want, they messed with the wrong girl.

Ahead, the city’s vine-covered walls rise above the trees, stretching in either direction from the river that cuts between two towers. White spray rages up from twisted bars and bent grates that perhaps once prevented anything other than water from passing through, but judging by the amount of rust, that was ages ago.

On top of the towers, I see long tubes that resemble the ones on the spiders’ backs. Weapons. Once upon a time, I bet those protected the city. Now they are just rusted junk.

The spiders stick to the river, easily walk by the water-gate’s remnants. Past the wall, Uchmal’s four-sided buildings—abandoned, but not destroyed. The buildings are smaller here than they are around the landing pad, but they get bigger the farther in we go.

We hear the waterfall long before we see it. When we turn a bend, there it is before us. The river just drops away; beyond it, open air and an amazing view of the city. The Observatory soars higher than any other building, so obnoxiously large it makes the rest of Uchmal look small and weak.

We pass by the switchback steps that Spingate, Coyotl and Farrar climbed. Like the spider that chased us then—or we
thought
was chasing us then—our three spiders don’t seem interested in tackling those steep steps. Off to my right, I see the pool where Bishop saved me from falling, where he held me, where he kissed me. If he remembers that moment, he gives no indication: he stares straight ahead.

I’m pretty sure the landing pad is southwest of us, but the spiders are heading due west.

“Bishop, where are we going?”

His brows knit with worry. “I don’t know. I told them to go to the shuttle. Maybe they’re heading to their nest.”

We now know it’s not a “nest,” but the word still works.

“Should we get off?” I ask. “Find our own way back?”

He considers it, shakes his head.

“Your wound is worse than you think. The less you walk, the better. We’re still getting closer to the shuttle, just not heading straight for it. Let’s stick with the spiders for now.”

—

Three spiders stride down the middle of a narrow, vine-choked road. On their backs ride five tired, hungry people.

Bishop guessed right—up ahead is the nest building. It is a strange construct, and
big
. Not as large as the Observatory, of course, but easily bigger than the food warehouse. Vine-covered, like all the rest, although it’s not a ziggurat. If anything, it reminds me of a really,
really
big version of…

…no, that can’t be right.

“Bishop, what does this place look like to you?”

He turns his head left, then right, taking it all in. “It’s long and narrow. It’s the only one I’ve seen with a curved top. I guess if it wasn’t covered in vines, it might look a bit like…”

His eyes go wide. He stares at me, astonished. “It looks like our shuttle.”

I nod. That’s what I thought, too. It’s a hundred times larger, so large I thought it was a building, but beneath a deep blanket of vines is the same streamlined shape as the ship that brought us down to Omeyocan.

We approach. I see lumpy piles of vines, some in the street, some closer to the nest. We pass one: it is an unmoving spider, blanketed by plants and moss. In places, little flowers jut from it, petals in shades of red and yellow. Tiny blurds buzz in and out.

How long has it been since this spider stopped moving?

Our mount walks past it toward a wide, open archway in the ship-shaped building. Blackened metal lines the archway’s edges, like there was once a door here that was melted, ripped down and burned.

The unmanned spider enters first. We follow it in, Coyotl right behind us.

This building…it’s cavernous. Huge girders soar above. Attached to them, machines that haven’t moved in years. Here and there, holes overhead, rusted-out spots with dangling vines and sunlight cascading down.

Rust is everywhere. Rust and wreckage.

Unmoving, five-legged spiders are scattered all over. Some sit in an endless line of small, cozy stalls that seem to run the length of the building, nestled in like we were in our coffins. Some spiders on their sides, some on their backs, legs curled in as if they were real spiders, dead and dried up.

And in places,
pieces
of spiders. A rusted abdomen attached to a rack on the wall here, piles of ruined and useless legs there, stacks of metal tubes over there.

I think of Grampa’s watches, all the little bits needed to make them run.

“Those are spare parts,” I say, pointing to the pile of legs, the stacks of tubes. I gesture to the whole building. “This was some kind of factory, I think. A place to fix spiders that stopped working.”

Our mount strides into an empty stall. On either side are metal racks packed with equipment that seems long since dormant. Moss grows on everything.

The spider lowers to its belly. Bishop steps down. He reaches his hand up to help me. I don’t need his help…but maybe I
want
it.

I take his hand in mine. His skin is so warm.

Stepping over the ridge, I try my best to slide down gracefully, but as soon as my boots land on dirt and dead vines, my legs wobble; I’m weak from the long ride. I take one step, and they give out. I fall fast, but Bishop is faster—his big hands cinch around my waist. I hear my spear clatter to the ground.

Bishop holds me upright like I weigh nothing at all.

“Are you all right?”

I feel dizzy, and not just from blood loss. He’s staring at me, concerned.

His dark-yellow eyes, locked onto mine…

“Yes,” I say. “I think I’m all right now.”

He sets me on my feet, but doesn’t let go right away. He holds on a moment too long. He’s
smiling
.

I smile back.

Then, as fast as the moment came, it’s gone. Bishop blinks a few times, slowly releases me, takes a step back. He looks like he wants to say something—something I know I long to hear—but instead he calls out to the others, his powerful voice echoing off the rust-eaten walls and ceiling.

“We can’t stay here long! Em needs to get back, so take a quick look and let’s go.”

He picks up the spear, hands it to me. I’m suddenly so tired. Bishop was right—my wound is worse than I thought.

We have to get back to the shuttle, I know this, but I can manage for a little bit more. This place…it’s important. It is the answer to a question, I just don’t know what that question is yet.

Kalle walks over, her little head tilted back. She turns slow circles, taking it all in.

“A factory,” she says. “Amazing. It had to come from
Xolotl,
just like our shuttle.”

“Hey! Come look at this!” It’s Coyotl, his voice echoing from farther in the building. He’s with Borjigin, who stares upward, mesmerized.

We walk to join them. Once again, my spear is less weapon, more cane.

Coyotl is gawking up at the curving wall, his head tilted so far he has to take a quick step backward to keep from falling on his butt.

He points. I crane my head, look. Nothing but more rust and vine-covered machinery. I start to ask him what he sees, then the image clarifies.