Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(53)

Bishop whispers in my ear: “What do we do now?”

I have no idea. I should have tried to talk to them, but I was too stunned, too afraid.

How long have those creatures been on Omeyocan?

They aren’t like the spiders. The spider is an animal; these creatures wore clothes, jewelry, carried either a tool or a weapon. They acted together, as a unit, like we do. They protected their children.

I don’t have to be Spingate to see that the creatures are well fed. And from what little we know, it seems we can eat what they eat.

The answer to our survival lies with something that isn’t human.

I need to learn more.

“We’ll follow them,” I say. “Let’s move.”

—

We stay close together. Visca is in front. He sweats more than anyone I’ve ever seen; most of the dirt and plant juice have washed off his face. His pale skin looks reddened from the sun, although his black circle-star symbol still stands out clearly.

He keeps us on their trail. That’s not easy, as we’ve crisscrossed at least a dozen intersecting paths. If the fire-makers made all of these paths, I wonder how many of them there are.

The building with the fire pit…one wall had been knocked in. We think a spider did that. Does that mean spiders attack the creatures just like they attack us? Could that possibly give us some common ground, a way to start communicating?



Every twenty or thirty steps, Visca stops, looks at the ground or an overhanging branch. I watch him carefully, see what he sees: a bit of overturned moss, a dangling wisp of colored thread clinging to a branch, a footprint in the dirt holding pooled-up water. This is how he tracks them. I wonder if I could do the same. I’m beginning to think that if I really paid attention, I could follow them using my nose alone.

That smell…burned toast…my dad used to make breakfast. For me and Mom and…I had a little brother? Dad was great at dinner, especially pork, but breakfast was always a disaster…burned toast, runny eggs, and—

Borjigin stumbles into me from behind—I stopped walking, lost in that unexpected memory.

“Sorry, Em,” he says, too loud by far. “I was watching my feet.”

“Be quiet,” I whisper.

He nods furiously. He’s afraid of the creatures, of what else might wait for us in this never-ending jungle.

Kalle is scared, too. I can see it on her little face. We all are, even the circle-stars. We’re just kids, reacting to an impossible situation. No help, no direction, no guidance.

I move down the trail again, catch up to Bishop.

That memory of breakfast. So real. But it’s Matilda’s memory, not mine. Why couldn’t that have been my life? Why couldn’t I have been born instead of hatched? A loving family, parents, a brother.

A new smell: roasting meat.

Visca raises a fist. We stop. He kneels, studies the ground, then we’re moving again, down a steep, tree-thick slope littered with vine-covered rubble. At the bottom, a shallow pond that comes up to our knees. I look around, realize the uneven ground rises up on all sides and that the pond is roughly circular: we’re in a crater, wider than the shuttle is long. A shiver runs through me—what kind of explosion could make a hole this big?



Visca keeps going. Soon we’re climbing up the far side. The mostly hidden rubble makes for dangerous footing, noisy footing, broken blocks and bits of masonry clicking and clacking with our steps.

Near the top, Visca holds up a fist. Bishop kneels next to him, looks, waves me forward. The three of us crouch down in the underbrush, just our heads peeking out from behind the crater’s lip.

We stare out at an uneven clearing. Vine-encrusted crumbling walls tower around the edge. Four walls, or at least parts of them, in that hex shape—I think the two missing walls were once where the crater is now. Beyond those ruined walls, the trees are thick, tall and old.

At the center of the clearing, a small, flickering fire. Above it, a little animal roasting on a spit. Juice bubbles out, hisses on the glowing coals below. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of my stomach right now, but the meat smells amazing.

No sign of the creatures. They built a fire, started cooking that animal, then left?

I lean close to Bishop: “Where are they?”

His gaze flicks about the clearing. The way his eyes move reminds me of the rag-clad fire-builder back on the trail, looking for danger, not finding any.

“I don’t like this,” he whispers.

Neither do I, but that doesn’t matter. I missed the first chance to talk to these creatures. I won’t miss the second.



Creatures…that’s no way to think of intelligent beings that might help us. I will call them Springers, at least until I understand what they call themselves.

“I’m going to the fire,” I say.

Bishop shakes his head. “Let me. They could be dangerous.”

Could be, that’s true, but Bishop is dangerous. Back on the trail, he was ready to kill them all. Even the children, probably. If there’s any chance for peace, for cooperation, I don’t want him screwing it up.

“My decision,” I say. “Stay here.”

His face tightens. At the shuttle, he follows my orders without question. Out here, he expects I will follow his.

Not this time.

I step over the crater’s lip. The clearing’s footing is uneven, a once-hard surface shattered as if by an earthquake. Dirt, vines and leaves cover the ground, cling to broken bits of building. Anything exposed to the light is dotted with blue-green moss. The path we were on continues, a narrow line that winds through the larger bits of rubble.