Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(107)

The heavy rocks hit the ground, bounce and roll at terrible speed. The first two whiz past the lead oncoming spider.

The next one hits.

Stone smashes into metal. The full-speed spider not only stops, it’s thrown backward, metal shell now wrapped around the embedded boulder. A human body flies free, spinning limply. The spider flips and skids to a stop. Broken and twisted yellow legs stick up in the air. Two more riders stumble to their feet, disoriented, probably injured.

Another boulder grazes the second spider, shearing off two legs as it rolls past. The spider crashes, spins wildly. Bodies fly, moving so fast and so violently that if the riders aren’t already dead, they will be when they hit the ground.



The other boulders sail past, all misses. They tumble across the clearing, losing speed—except for one. It must have hit a hard patch, because it sails higher like a ball bouncing off a floor. The boulder smashes into our side of the clearing, pulverizing human bodies.

In a span of seconds, the “outmatched” Springers have destroyed two spiders and killed the crew of a third. Now I understand why the Springers wanted the spiders in one place—with that many wagons, at least some of the two-dozen-odd boulders were bound to connect.

The last attacking spider’s legs flash in a mad chopping motion as it slows, stops and retreats.

From the edge of the clearing, a fresh wave of Springers pours forth. I can’t hear them, but I can see their open mouths and I know they’re bellowing a war cry.

“Twenty seconds to landing,” Gaston says.

The Springer line closes in on the two spider riders stranded in the middle of the clearing. The riders take cover behind their ruined machine. I silently urge them to run, but the smaller of the two clutches her arm to her chest, and the bigger one won’t leave. There is just enough detail for me to make out who they are—it’s Bawden and…Zubiri.

The shuttle lurches left.

“Fifteen seconds,” Gaston calls out.

I look to our side of the clearing, to see what Aramovsky does next, and when I do, the trees themselves seem to move forward.

It’s a giant—a walking giant covered in vines, leaves, even whole trees jammed into gaps and spaces. One arm ends in a huge scoop shovel, the other in a pincer. It’s the construction machine we saw in the spider nest. We’re flying, but I swear I can feel the ground shake with each step of the huge metal feet.



Lahfah points at it, jabbers something fast and panicked, then re-grips his handhold as the shuttle shifts right.

“The Springers can’t stop that thing,” Bishop says. “Muskets and rocks aren’t going to do anything to that.”

“Missiles will take it out,” Spingate says. “Em, what do we do?”

The giant’s long strides eat up the distance. The Springers fire muskets at it, which doesn’t slow it in the least. Everything is happening too fast. We can destroy it, but just like the spiders, I’ll be killing my own people. Unless…

“Spin, hit the ground in front of the big machine, and also in front of the Springers, but try not to kill anyone. Do it now!”

Her hands grab symbols made of light.

“Launching,” she says, her voice calm and level.

The shuttle vibrates. Our view is temporarily blinded by spots of moving fire, then by streaks of smoke snaking out and away from us—some toward the Springers, some toward the giant machine.

The smoke lines touch the ground.

Expanding half-spheres of dirt and grass rise up, driven by churning fireballs. The Springers are knocked away—hard—many of them lifted off their feet and thrown backward.

A fireball rises up in front of the giant machine, splashing it with debris. Its lumbering ceases as the people inside it duck for cover.

Rubble rains down onto the battlefield.

Bawden covers Zubiri with her own body.

I point to them. “Gaston, put us down there! By that ruined spider!”

The shuttle banks to the right, throwing me hard against the handhold. The shuttle banks left, then up. Bishop loses his grip and tumbles away. He hits the door, bounces off it just as the shuttle levels out, trembles once, then stops.



“We’re down,” Gaston says.

Bishop is on his stomach, moving weakly.

“Gaston,” I say, “tell Smith there are wounded on the field. Spingate, stay in the pilothouse and be ready with the missiles. If I raise my left fist, you take out the giant, understand?”

“Understood.” Her gaze is steel. “You know that will kill whoever is inside it, right?”

I nod. If I have to kill again to stop this, if I have to carry yet another haunting face around with me wherever I go, so be it.

“Lahfah, Barkah, move,” I say. “Bishop, get up.”

He looks hurt, more damage on an already brutalized body. Later I will feel sympathy for him. I’m not giving him the choice of staying down.

He’s struggling to his hands and knees. “I’m coming, just get out there and stop this!”

I run from the pilothouse to find the shuttle doors already opening. I step onto the platform and am assaulted by the odors of battle—metal, scorched wood, wet charcoal, burning mint and a sickening stench of cooking meat.

I slide my silver bracelet off my arm. I don’t want to get blasted to bits if one of the kids mistakenly thinks I’m going to shoot Aramovsky. I hold the bracelet by the long point, raise it up high so all my people can see it. Then, I throw it, as hard as I can. It spins through the air, gleaming in the morning sun. The point plunges into a bloody patch of fresh dirt. There it stands, open circle sticking up, almost like a gravestone marking the deaths of today’s fallen.