Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(26)

She crosses her arms. “Aramovsky asked for my help. He said the gods willed it. The pedestal had instructions for waking them, just like it had instructions for healing you.”

I remember Spingate’s words in the pilothouse, her worry that the kids might already be overwritten.

“Spin…are they like us?”

She nods quickly, instantly understanding my concern.

“O’Malley and Gaston said the new kids didn’t know who they were or where they were, just like when we woke up. The kids were terrified.”

There is anger in her voice. Like me, she understands how much trouble we’re in now that our numbers have doubled but our food has not.

I wish I had my spear. I’m so mad I could almost use it on Smith. I’m hot in the face and chest. It feels the same as when I lost my temper with Spingate—the difference is Smith did do something to deserve it.

“You woke them up, Smith,” I say. “Can you put them back to sleep?”



She juts out her chin. “You don’t have the right to do that, you—”

“Answer my question.”

Something in my voice makes her take a step back.

“It’s not safe for them,” she says. “Once someone comes out of a coffin for the first time, they’re alive. Putting them back into deep sleep could kill them.”

Her words, or Aramovsky’s?

“You’re lying,” I say.

I have no idea if she is, or if she’s telling the truth. I’m just so frustrated.

Smith sneers. “You think you know everything. Well, you don’t know anything about this. If you’re smart, you’ll believe me.”

I want to hit something. We’ve worked so hard, sacrificed so much, and now everything is at risk. My fury isn’t going to fix anything, though, not when our survival is at stake. Calm plans can keep us alive—decisions driven by anger could move us closer to death.

A knock on the room’s metal door.

Smith walks to it. The handprint there—of course—has a circle-cross in the palm. She presses it and the door slides open.

O’Malley. Holding my spear.

He enters, smiling that lovely smile of his. He hands me the spear.

“Em, you look much better.”

He glances at Smith and Spingate.

“Can Em and I have a quick moment alone?”

“Sure,” Spingate says. “I have to test some of the shuttle’s food stores before the meeting anyway, make sure the mold hasn’t gotten in. Smith, come help me.”

Smith looks like she would rather go anywhere than with Spingate, but follows her out.



O’Malley waits a moment to make sure they’re too far away to overhear.

“Everyone knows about the spider, the food warehouse and the mold,” he says. “They are afraid. They need to hear from their leader that we’ll find a solution.”

I’m sure people are scared. I’ll do what I can to make them feel better.

“Thank you,” I say. “But…I don’t remember asking for a meeting. Did I?”

He shrugs. “I figured you would want to talk when you woke up, so I told everyone you called a meeting.”

That seems like odd behavior.

“Why didn’t you just say it was your idea?”

“Because people listen to you. You’re the leader. Ready?”

I’m not happy he lied. I’m also not happy that I left him in charge, and came back to chaos.

“We’ll go in a minute,” I say. “First, what happened while I was gone? How could you let Aramovsky open up the coffins?”

The question angers him.

“I didn’t let him do anything. Gaston never left the pilothouse. I had to control the kids from the Xolotl. They were getting into the food, going outside, running around. While I was busy watching them, Aramovsky slipped away.”

I notice the cut on O’Malley’s cheek is almost gone. It’s just a pink line, barely even a scar.

Smith healed him, too.

I point to the coffins. “Did Aramovsky and Smith let the new kids out while you were in one of those?”

He reactively touches his cheek. I’ve caught him in a second lie.

“Yes,” he says. “I didn’t think Aramovsky would try something while I was in there. How could I have known he would?”



It makes sense now. With me, Spingate and Bishop gone, with O’Malley unconscious, with Gaston learning about the shuttle, no one was watching Aramovsky. Someone always needs to be watching him.

“Em, I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

He did. I’m so angry at O’Malley. He always seems to think things through, but this time he didn’t.

“Sorry won’t keep us alive. The next time I tell you to do something, do it. Do you understand what this does to us?”

That familiar, blank expression settles over him.

“I get it,” he says. His voice is thin, his words clipped. “Are you finished yelling at me?”

I can only hope I’ve made my point.

“I’m finished. Let’s go.”





Deck One’s coffin room is packed. People sit or stand on closed coffins, sit on the black floor in the aisles, lean against the red walls. Almost three hundred faces—most of which I’ve never seen before—stare back at me. White-shirted little kids whisper to each other, pointing at me as if I’m an ancient myth come to life.