Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(108)

This is my chance—my one chance—to stop the slaughter. I push away my pain, my heartbreak, my fear. I square my shoulders, and I stride down the ramp like I own this world.



Like an empress.

War’s crumbs dot the clearing’s ravaged ground. Twists of burned vines and clumps of soil. A torn Springer head and shoulder, smoke drifting up from the half-open toad-mouth. A severed human hand—dark-skinned.

Lahfah limps down the ramp behind me. Barkah hops out, confident and regal despite his wounds and ravaged eye. Like me, he has pushed his pain down below, prepared himself for this one moment that will make all the difference. At the bottom of the ramp, the pair turn and hop toward the Springer lines, screaming as loud as they can—I can only hope they are telling their kind to stay back, to give me time to do what must be done.

Three spiders stand not ten strides away. They are battered and rusted, even more than the ones we first saw in the jungle. Their cannons, though, gleam and shine.

The spiders on the left and right are each crewed by three kids—a gear, who must be the driver, and two black-clad circle-stars armed with silver bracelets pointed directly at me. I know that if I make any sudden movement, they will fire.

Standing on the middle spider: Aramovsky, the man who makes children go to war. He holds the spear.

My spear.

His red robes blaze in the morning sun. A long-pointed bracelet adorns his right arm. Standing atop the spider’s back, staring down with fury and excitement, he looks like an angry god of war.

“You told me to wipe out the vermin,” he says. “Now you’ve brought two of them with you? If you want to help me finish this, use those rockets to destroy their trebuchets!”

Like Bello, he thinks I’m Matilda. Of course he does. When he left the Observatory, I was locked in a coffin. It could not possibly be a worse time to do it, but I can’t stop myself—I start laughing.



“You know something, Aramovsky? You always thought you were smarter than me.”

It takes him a second to understand. His eyes flick to the Springers. He snarls at me.

“Where is Matilda?”

As if in answer, the sky fills with a broken sound that quickly grows to a roar. I’ve heard that sound before, when Bello’s ship came down. But this time, the ship is going up.

I point to a line of smoke streaking into the sky. “Matilda is there. Probably with Old Gaston. They left you, Aramovsky. And don’t bother looking for Coyotl, O’Malley or Beckett, because they’re all dead.”

His eyes narrow. So much hate in them. His hand squeezes on my spear, so tight the blade trembles.

“Knights,” he says, “kill this traitor!”

From the shuttle platform behind me, Bishop’s voice booms out, echoing across the clearing.

“Hold your fire!”

No one moves. Aramovsky thinks he speaks for the gods, but Bishop truly has the voice of one.

“The Grownups are gone, Aramovsky,” Bishop says. “And your time as leader is over.”

Aramovsky’s mouth opens. He looks rattled, but recovers quickly. He raises the spear over his head and shouts his answer.

“The vermin want to murder you in your sleep, take away what the gods have given you! If Em and Bishop aren’t with us, then they are against us. Do not listen to their blasphemous lies. The time has come to take this planet for ourselves.”



He points the spear to his right, up at the towering metal monster covered in vines and trees.

“Lead the assault! Crush the Springers!”

Please don’t move…please don’t listen to him…

The massive machine lifts a foot, extends it, sets it down with a thump that shakes the entire clearing.

Barkah must have stopped the Springers from attacking, but if the giant presses forward, then they will fight back.

I have no choice.

“Aramovsky, who is driving that thing?”

The monstrosity takes another thundering step. I hear the Springer horns sound all through the jungle.

“Abrantes and Aeschelman,” he says, “both young halves, and two brave young knights—Cody and Cadotte. You wouldn’t know them, because you never talked to them like I did.”

Kids. Would it be any better if it was people my age? No, not really.

“Why, Em?” Aramovsky spreads his hands, turning in place and speaking to everyone, like he always does when he’s trying to make me look bad. “Do you think you’re going to talk them out of it? Maybe shout to the sky and the stars and the sun, hope that they hear you?”

I shake my head. “No. I just want to know who I killed.”

The monster machine takes another step.

I raise my left fist.

Spingate does not fail me.

A hiss, a roar of flame—two smoke trails shoot out from the top of the shuttle, covering the distance almost instantly. The missiles hit at the same time, one near the head, the other sliding into the chest. Fireballs erupt, billowing up to the sky and down to the machine’s knees. A cloud of angry orange rises, driven higher by the column of flame beneath it. The vines catch fire, as do the full-size trees jammed into the nooks and crannies. Every inch of the machine bubbles and burns. The fireball dissipates, replaced by a column of greasy black smoke.



The machine moves no more.