Alight (47 page)

Muller drives the spider to the Observatory. Once again, he lowers the war machine’s belly to the ground.

“Shall I escort you in, Em?”

I’m sure he wants to protect me, but there is another reason he’d like to come inside.

“I can make it on my own, thank you. You don’t mind staying out here, do you?”

He looks crestfallen. Like most of the circle-stars, Muller can’t hide his emotions. It’s so easy to tease him.

“Oh, wait,” I say. “I’m seeing Spingate, and Zubiri might be with her. Zubiri isn’t the
real
reason you want to go with me, is it?”

He shakes his head. “No! I’m supposed to stay with you is all, honest! Bishop told me to—”

I can’t help but laugh at him. “It’s all right, you can come.”

It’s funny when I think about it, but in a way, Aramovsky got his wish. Part of it, anyway. He wanted us all to live in the Observatory. Turns out, that was an excellent idea.

In the days following the battle, we were unsure of Barkah’s intentions as the new Springer leader. We couldn’t stay in the shuttle anymore, as it was too crowded, but we also needed a place that was defendable. We’re still outnumbered at least a thousand to one, something I can’t ignore. Barkah can’t possibly control all of his kind. The Observatory gives us the space we need, and has only a few entrances, which we can seal up tight.

Borjigin’s progenitor was trained to manage buildings, guide construction and repair, do all the things needed to make a city operate. Our Borjigin discovered the Observatory has lights, clean running water, temperature control—everything we need.

The telescope part doesn’t work, though. Apparently it needs a different kind of power. Zubiri figured out that the power source was in the room where O’Malley died, at the bottom of the shaft surrounded by that red metal wall. The fire destroyed the power cable, and also dropped some debris on top of the power source, breaking it. Zubiri, Spingate and the other gears have been working for a long time to fix it.

The Observatory has
thousands
of rooms, more than enough for everyone to have their own space. Aramovsky’s wish came true for him, especially: he’s locked in a stone cell in the building’s lower levels—the same cell Muller was locked in, actually. Bello is locked in another cell. If she and Aramovsky shout loud enough, they can sort of hear each other. They’ll stay in those cells until I’m damn good and ready to figure out how to put them on trial for their crimes.

There is even space for the hundred red-skinned Springers that live with us. Some train with Spingate and the scientists, some with Bishop and the circle-stars, some with Smith for medicine, some with the halves for civil engineering and management. It’s part of Barkah’s and my effort to bridge the gaps between our species, to create cooperation and harmony.

And some of the young reds work with our “plain-old circles.” Just like with humans, not every Springer is cut out for math, science, planning or war.

It breaks my heart, but Okereke, Johnson, Cabral and Ingolfsson still don’t seem interested in learning a particular skill. I’ve asked them. If someone tells them what to do, they’re happy to do it. And most of the twelve-year-old circles—who are now closer to thirteen—feel the same way. Out of all the circles, only a handful of kids and D’souza seem interested in becoming something other than what they were designed to be.

Some of those ambitious circles are out in the jungle, living with the Springers. Just as we have much to teach them, they have much to teach us. D’souza leads the effort of learning how to farm and prepare food, how the Springers gather, hunt and trap.

I talk to D’souza—her first name is Maria
—
at least twice a day. She’s learning the Springer language, learning to be a Springer in much the same way that Bishop teaches Muller how to be a knight. Maria gives me hope that I’m not the only one capable of being something more than the Grownups designed us to be, that any of us can create our own destiny.

If it sounds like our two races are getting along well, they aren’t. If we could have ended the battle before it began, then—maybe—we could have all been friends. But 213 Springers died that day. Another hundred or so bear permanent injuries. We lost fourteen people, and have permanent injuries of our own. No matter how many times Barkah and I tell everyone that we’re all working together now, each race distrusts the other. We are just too
different
.

There have been fights between our races. Mostly with fists, some with weapons. We’ve had people beaten and cut—our kids are told to never go out alone, especially at night. If it wasn’t for our circle-crosses and the Observatory’s medical facilities, our death toll would have climbed higher still. Springers, too, have been hurt as some of our youth have sought to repay violence with violence.

But we’re trying. And as devious as Barkah turned out to be, he’s trying, too.

I invited the entire Springer population to move into Uchmal, so the city walls could keep out those predators lurking in the jungle. A few accepted, most declined. The sins of our creators won’t fade overnight. Not to mention the fact that we use spiders constantly—for any Springer, the sight of those metal monstrosities still fills them with terror.

Instead of moving into our city, the Springers are rebuilding their own. They finally have the opportunity to live aboveground. They’re starting small, working with a few of the hexagonal buildings that had the least damage. Finally free from the constant threat of spiders, they are even trying to build their first factories so they can mass-produce goods for farming, hunting, construction and more. Making each item by hand takes too long. I even have two of the kids who were stored in the shuttle—Bariso and Nevins—helping them design a rifle to replace their muskets.

As for Bishop and me, I want to spend more time with him and he wants to spend more time with me, but the things we have done haunt us both. Being around each other reminds us of those things. I know he’s working just as hard as I am to build our new way of life—for now, that is enough.

I gaze up at the massive Observatory. We’ve lived here for 271 days now—Opkick has kept a close count—yet the size still staggers my imagination. Borjigin estimates this building alone took the machines twenty or thirty years to make. The whole city? Probably along the lines of a half-century.

We haven’t cut the Observatory’s vines, because they mostly cover up horrible images that none of us need to see. We’ll get rid of those images someday, but for now there are more important things to do.

We’ve found a total of three ground-level entrances into the Observatory. We think there is at least one more, though, a secret exit from the main room that Matilda and Old Gaston must have used to escape. She helped design the city, after all—the secrets she knows will hurt us if she ever comes back.

Our main entrance is the one Barkah used to rescue us, the same entrance young Springers used for years to explore the Observatory and steal food stored there. Seems our wrapped packages were more than just a trophy for young Springers who proved their bravery by entering the city and risking spider attack—our food is something of a delicacy to them. Right now, it is a central unit of trade between races. They get
CRACKERS
and
PROTEIN BARS
and
COOKIES,
we get fruit and vegetables, meat, grains, and a certain kind of tree bark. Turns out, bark is absolutely delicious.

“Come on,” I say to Muller. “Let’s go see your girlfriend.”

His face flushes, but he doesn’t deny it. I should really stop teasing him so much.

At the Observatory entrance, Barkah, Lahfah, D’souza and Borjigin are waiting for me.

Barkah still has Kevin’s knife in his belt. Every time I meet the Springer leader, I can’t help but notice that.

D’souza no longer wears black coveralls. Strips of colored cloth are tied around her arms, legs, stomach, and strategically around her waist and chest. Her beautiful brown skin is even darker now, as she spends every day in the jungle. She carries a Springer bag, a hatchet tucked into her belt, and a musket slung over her shoulder.

Barkah wears a patch over his ruined middle eye, but the two remaining green eyes are bright, full of excitement for life. He loves his role as the leader of his people.

“Hem,”
he says.
“Feel well…today?”

I can’t help but smile. Barkah is picking up our language. I only wish I was as good at picking up theirs.

“Yawap,” I say. “Tallik…tallik cree?”

Lahfah’s frog-mouth trembles like she’s trying to hold something back, then it opens wide with grinding-glass laughter. We now know “he” is a “she.” Her leg is fully healed, thanks in no small part to young Pokano, the circle-cross who has chosen to focus specifically on Springer physiology.

I look to D’souza. “What is she laughing at? I tried to say,
I feel fine
.”

“Close,” she says. “You said,
I feel poop on my face.
”

I laugh, embarrassed. Lahfah laughs harder. Barkah growls at her. She stops, but her body continues to shake with held-back amusement. The two of them go everywhere together. Lahfah has an unstoppable sense of humor, which is good, because Barkah doesn’t seem to have one at all.

Borjigin is impatient. He looks at the thin rectangle in his hands, which he calls a “messageboard.” He and Opkick found several of them in an Observatory storeroom. They use them to get information when they are out in the city or the jungle, far away from pedestals.

“We’re
late,
” he says. “Can we please stop joking about feces and get inside?”

I’m the leader of the people, but Borjigin is in charge of extending the reach of power and clean water, the continuous searching of unexplored buildings, a thousand other things necessary to make this city livable. He works even harder than I do, and—like Barkah—has little time for jokes.

We’re about to enter when Okereke, Johnson and a young circle named Mehmet walk out. They are covered in mud and greasy char. They stink of dirt and some kind of mineral scent I can’t place. They are laughing and excited.

“You’re filthy,” I say to Okereke. “What have you three been up to in there?”

“Helping Spingate,” he says. “And Zubiri.”

“Helping with what?”

He shakes his head, all smiles. “She made us promise not to say anything until she talked to you first. But it’s really amazing.”

Borjigin’s fingers drum impatiently on the messageboard.

“Fine,” I say. “Borjigin, lead the way.”

The hallway we used to flee the fire is now illuminated by a glowing ceiling rather than torchlight. The floor is swept clean, the stone walls are spotless.

The long walk brings us to the room where Coyotl’s mind was erased, where Old Dr. Smith burned to death, where Springers died, where I shot Old Bishop and stabbed O’Malley. I wish we could center things elsewhere, but Spingate and Gaston both insist this room was designed to be the hub of all the Observatory’s abilities.

While I will never recover from those memories, the room looks completely different. The golden coffins have been moved elsewhere in the building, and modified by Smith and Pokano to become sources of health and healing rather than destruction. The burned ceiling was scraped away, painted white, all the lights repaired. We covered up that horrible mural. We found a storeroom with replacement pedestals; a half-dozen of them adorn a rebuilt platform, and a dozen more are set up in the space the coffins once occupied.

Despite all the cleaning and painting, this place still smells faintly of smoke and scorched flesh. Every time I come in, I look at the spot where O’Malley died.

Springers and kids alike study at the floor pedestals. Some are learning math and science, some are helping develop Borjigin’s plan for the city.

Spingate, Gaston and Zubiri are standing on the platform. Spingate’s belly is curved with the life growing inside of her. She walks funny now, has to in order to balance the weight—Smith says the baby is overdue.

Gaston has grown something, too: a beard. It is thick and black, and it annoys Bishop. As big as Bishop is, all he can manage is a thin blond scraggle. Gaston is fond of saying that facial hair defines being “manly,” and will continue to say so until it stops enraging Bishop.

And then there is Zubiri.

Most of her face has been repaired. Smith is still working on replacing her missing teeth. Five of them are in and set, three more to go. I’m told that after the next operation, Zubiri should have her smile back. The one thing she can never have back, though, is her left arm.

She lost it in the battle. It was torn off in the spider crash, severed just above her elbow. Smith could do nothing for that. Coffins can do miracles on skin and bone, fixing up that which is damaged, but regrowing body parts is beyond the technology’s abilities.

Spingate looks up from her work. She sees Muller, smiles.

“Grandmaster Zubiri,” she says, “can you go to the shuttle and bring me back the bracer from storage? And Em, I need Zubiri back here sooner rather than later—would you mind if Victor gives her a ride?”

Zubiri and Muller—I correct myself,
Victor—
stare at each other. I’m not sure they even remember I’m here.

“I don’t mind at all,” I say. “Just don’t be gone all day.”

“We won’t,” the two of them say in unison, and they rush out of the room before we can change our minds.

We’ve learned that Zubiri is brilliant.
Genius
is the word Spingate uses to describe her. Perhaps someday soon Zubiri will lead these research efforts instead of Spingate, but the girl’s mind isn’t always on her work. Maybe if she hadn’t had her arm ripped off and her face smashed so hard she needed eleven reconstructive surgeries, maybe if she didn’t wake up every night screaming in horror as she relives that moment, then she could concentrate more.

And, of course, maybe if she wasn’t in love with a boy.

Gaston is staring at an image of stars hovering above a pedestal. He waves us to join him.