Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(103)

“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.