Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(112)

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.