Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(44)

Down and down we go. Bishop first, then Visca, then me, Spingate, Aramovsky and finally O’Malley. We hold our weapons at the ready. I don’t know how long we descend. Long enough that I’m sure the sun has set, that the Observatory’s long shadow has once again engulfed the shuttle.

Finally, the stairs end at a small room with a stone floor. In one wall, a door made of vertical metal bars. Some kind of metallic mesh hangs behind the bars. Next to the door is a plaque with a red handprint: a gold double-ring marks the palm.

This place has a stale odor. It smells like my coffin room did when I first woke up.

I point to the plaque. “Aramovsky, open it.”

He glances at Bishop, then quickly presses his hand to the print.

We again hear that sound of struggling machinery, then the bars and mesh rattle, kicking off a brief cascade of rust as they slide to the right, revealing a small room.

“It’s an elevator,” O’Malley says.

I remember those. My heart pounds at the sight of it. I don’t want to be sealed up in that tiny space, but what choice do I have? We came here to find answers. If that means getting into a cramped elevator, I have to do it.

“Everyone, inside,” I say.

It’s a tight fit. Bishop keeps his axe close to his chest so as not to accidentally cut anyone. Visca stands his sledgehammer in the corner. Aramovsky and Spingate are armed only with the knives strapped to their thighs, although they have to adjust their black bags to make room. My spear is a bit too tall for the low ceiling; I have to hold it at an angle.



O’Malley slides the bars back into place, shutting us in. No plaque in here. No controls that I can see.

Without warning, the cage drops. We grab each other out of fear. We’re dropping fast. I shut my eyes tight, stifle a scream. My insides feel like they’re floating, rising up.

We’re going to smash into the ground. I should have never got in here, never, we’re going to die I’m going to die trapped in this tiny box.

Spingate’s fingers intertwine with mine, clasp tight.

“Breathe, Em,” she says softly. “We’re fine.”

I suddenly feel heavier.

“We’re slowing down,” she says.

Heavier still…

The cage bounces slightly. It has stopped.

Spingate all but collapses on me, hangs on me, laughing. I don’t know how to react—a little while ago she thought I might kill her because of her symbol.

She shakes her head, then kisses me on the cheek.

“I’m sorry, Em. I said awful things in the lab. I barely even know where to start with the red mold, and there just isn’t enough time. And then all the horrible pictures and carvings on the way up here…it made me so upset. So many images of people killing my kind.”

I nod. I understand, and also, I don’t. I’ve used the phrase my kind, too, so I can’t hold that against her, but aren’t we all the same kind?

She kisses my cheek again, hugs me tight. “I know that statue isn’t you. You’re not like Matilda. You would never do anything like that.”



The elevator door slides open to darkness.

As one, we reach into our bags for our flashlights.

Bishop and Visca go first, as always, axe and hammer at the ready, flashlight beams probing the darkness. The rest of us follow. Our lights play off a curved ceiling made of large stone blocks. Carvings cover the stone walls. These images we’ve seen before: ziggurats, cartoonish people, jaguars, suns.

Not that far from the elevator, our flashlights light up the soft gleam of dusty metal—golden coffins. Four of them, on golden risers so their closed lids are waist high. Laid out side by side, their surfaces are richly detailed with gemstones and the same images we see on the walls. The dust here is thin, not like the thick stuff that coated everything back on the Xolotl.

These coffins have no nameplates.

Past the coffins is a raised platform with five white pedestals. To our left, a tall black “X” mounted into the floor. Thick shackles dangle from the top of each arm. A bar runs between the tops of those arms—hanging from that bar, some kind of ornate, black crown. On the wall just behind the X, a colorful, carved mural: an old man shackled to that same X, wearing that same crown, a young man in red robes before him, driving a knife into the old man’s chest. To our right, deep shadows filled with racks of bins similar to what we saw in the food warehouse, except these bins all look empty and many are scattered about.

In the room’s center, there is a hole about as wide as I am tall. A waist-high, red metal wall surrounds it. A flexible black tube—as thick as my arm—runs from inside that hole, over the wall and under the pedestal platform.

Visca and Bishop move through the room, flashlights in one hand, weapons in the other. We give them a few minutes, then everyone starts exploring.



I walk to the red wall. Engraved in the metal is a large black symbol. It’s like the one from the plateau on top of this building, but slightly different. Two rings, four dots on the outer ring, two in the middle ring, but there is also a thick dot in the middle—right where the stone pillar was.

“Aramovsky, take a look at this.”

Maybe with the center dot, he’ll recognize it.

He stands at my side, staring at it. He shakes his head—he doesn’t know what it is. At least now he admits it.